


Heat

by Fuseaction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuseaction/pseuds/Fuseaction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, Jim, and Seb. A look into their heads, and the horrors that lurk within them all. Post-Pool setting. Humorous, but with a judicious sprinkling of self-loathing and tragedy. They face losing everything as they war with each other. Angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

Heat. A blazing, smoldering heat. A snapping, popping sound. Vehement swearing drifts atop the steady crackle. A pungent odor. Petrol, perhaps?

 

Sherlock’s eyes open to the dancing orange glow of fire. He glances around. Strips of silk, approximately 46 inches long, bind him to the bed. Ties. Not just any ties; silk ties, implying some level of wealth. Lying with his head awkwardly against the headboard of a rather posh rosewood bed frame. Bed sheets: also silk. More wealth. Expensive fabrics and furniture plus fire, well that was easy. He is tied to the bed posts in one of Jim Moriarty’s numerous flats. How quaint.

 

He should have known that he’d end up here eventually. It was inevitable, really. Now he just needed to see whether this rendezvous was for business or pleasure. Pleasure, in Moriarty’s terms would no doubt consist of torture, death threats, and mental “stimulation”. None of this differed from business, the only distinction being that in pleasure Seb and John were involved.

 

Speaking of Seb and John…

 

Sherlock looked past the fire surrounding the bed. _For God’s sake, a bloody ring of fire? Oh Jim, how dramatic of you._

 

Sebastian Moran stands barely 3 feet away from John, both of them bristling like alpha wolves. They speak, each word uttered with quiet menace, so quiet that Sherlock has to read their lips.

 

 

John: “- already know my answer. You two must be really thick to think I’d go for something like that. Back off, or I swear Sebastian, I’ll be the death of both of you.”

 

Seb: “Big words for someone so small, yeah? Think it over. After all, time is running out for the great detective.”

 

John: “Piss off. If a single hair on his head is so much as singed, I’ll tear you apart. Or maybe I’ll just pop back to the other room where Moriarty is lying unconscious on the ground and strangle him with his own poncy tie.”

 

Seb growls.

 

Seb: “Give it a go, why don’t you? Won’t bode well for Sherly. How’s about I take that pretty face of his and—“

 

John: “Have I rattled you? Ha, I knew that you and Moriarty were close, but never would have guessed _that_ close. Been round his bed much? Or does he only let you suck him off in a car park when no one’s looking? I’d say that he’s using you, but you masochists are always looking for humiliation, so no need for me to mention it.”

 

Seb: “I’ll kill you. You and your fucking savant boyfriend.”

 

John: “Language, Moran, language! He’s not my boyfriend, but the sentiment is noted.”

 

Seb: “I’m glad I get to kill you. I’ve wanted to the moment I saw you through my scope.”

 

Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate the situation. The two golden haired soldiers stand in front of him, threats etched in the taut lines of their bodies as they stand tensed for battle, one almost platinum, the other a tawny shade. _It’s almost beautiful_ , he thinks as he admires the way the fire light makes their hair glow. Alright, now he’s definitely sure he was drugged and/or hit over the head. Sherlock thrills inside at the news of Jim, grinning to himself as he pictures John decking him right in the face. He pictured blood pouring from Jim’s nose. Too bad, the suit he was undoubtedly wearing was sure to be expensive.

 

Sherlock rather liked John’s murderous rages. They always brought out the efficient killer/fighter/strategist that he gained from his time in the Army. Having such a physically and mentally competent person to dash about London with was quite an adventure.

 

…. And then there was the fire to think about. Potentially problematic. The flames seemed to be there more as a barrier than a kiln in which to incinerate Sherlock. Kidnapped but not injured (as far as he could tell). Strange. He mouths a quiet, breathy _oh_ as it starts to make sense. This is about John then.

 

 _Think!_ What about John would induce Jim to go to such measures as stealing Sherlock? _Stealing me? Implies that I belong to John, now doesn’t it? File that under Contemplate Later._ Looking past that he goes through all he knows about John Hamish Watson. Nothing that could potentially interest Jim blips. Unless this really is just for the amusement of having Sherlock play the damsel in distress. Though John’s military/medical background would make him a valuable addition to Jim’s current organization, Sherlock knows that Jim knows that John would never accept any offer he made, no matter how good the deal. Out of the question. John’s loyalty was one of the many ineffable and unwavering qualities that he brought into Sherlock’s life. John was stability, was consistency, was… many things. A puzzle, and an open book. _Contemplate Later._

Sherlock decides to test his bonds. Tight enough that he realizes that he can’t actually feel his hands. He puts his weight on the bonds, pulling himself into a slightly more comfortable position. _Comfortable. Ha. Comfortable is boring._ His vantage point affords him the full view of John and Seb. Sherlock observes John, noticing how he has stealthily slipped into a fighting stance. Knees slightly bent weight on the front of his feet. Seb sees this, of course. Seb’s mocking manner is at once stowed away as he too gets ready for the clash. There is a moment when the silence roars. Even the fire seemed to go quiet.

 

Suddenly Sherlock is worried. John is a great fighter, no doubt, but Seb is so much larger, so much more ruthless. John’s eyes are narrowed, his every breath controlled and measured. Seb is calm and collected. His eyes. Cold, yet lit with a manic gleam that one sees in rabid dogs.

 

Sherlock’s fists clench. _This shouldn’t be happening._

_This can’t be happening. John, I can’t. What if he wins?_

There was nothing that Sherlock could do to stop this. He struggled against his restraints as the two soldiers leapt towards each, bathed in the nearly red light of the fire.


	2. John

John is painfully conscious of Sherlock the entire time. John saw him stir out of the corner of his eye, saw him use his “massive intellect” as he figured out where he was and why. Saw him smile at the mention of Moriarty knocked out. John hoped that Sherlock knew that his next action was for him.

 

Worst flat-mate ever. Best flat-mate ever. Where did one end and the other begin? _Probably around doing the shopping and saving the world._

 

John’s practiced eye takes in his opponent, calculating strengths and weaknesses. His method is much more instinctual than Sherlock’s. His instinct hasn’t been wrong yet. Sebastian Moran is most definitely a most formidable man. About as tall as Sherlock, Moran still has the “Ex-Army” look about him. Fit and trim, as if he maintained the physical training regimen every day since his Dishonorable Discharge. Dangerous.

 

Sherlock and Moriarty may be experienced with mental warfare and manipulation, but this was Moran and John’s territory. He’d never felt more up to a challenge then at this moment. All of his training that he had put away in a dusty little box in his mind (how else was he supposed to function as a civilian?) was at his command, as sharp as the days when its use was a matter of life and death. He felt exultant at the idea of combat. His body was eager to slip back to its battle stance, which was more natural to him than regular standing. _God, how I’ve missed this. Mycroft, the bastard, could tell straight off. So much for being a well adjusted human being._

His last few words had elicited the response he was hoping for from Moran. Insulting someone when you want them to hit you is so satisfying, John realized, thinking that he should probably feel ashamed. Moran’s face was stormy, his brow murderous.

 

“I’m glad I get to kill you. I’ve wanted to the moment I saw you through my scope.”

 

John’s heart is pumping, his stomach flexed with impatience. _Get on with it so I can smash your face! God, once I get my hands on you I’m going to –_

_Shit._ He’d forgotten about Sherlock. He almost hoped that he’d passed out from smoke inhalation or something so that he wouldn’t have to witness John’s slip-up. Nothing would confirm Sherlock’s ideas about the hypocrisy and predictability of the human nature more than seeing John go all ape-shit-war-mode. He hadn’t committed any violence since he was sent ho— OK! So he’d thrown a few knock-out punches here and there, and maybe cracked someone’s ribs with his knee.  _Well, now is obviously not the time to be worrying what he bloody thinks, now is it? If he isn’t damn chuffed that I broke my battle(proper battle)-sobriety streak he can go shove his head up his arse._

He sees Sherlock strain against whatever is tying him to the bed, just as John tenses to spring forward. His attention snaps to Moran. They understand each other. This is no petty brawl. There will be a winner, and a dead man. John gives Moran the slightest of nods, showing his respect and awareness for Moran’s skill and prowess. Moran nods back.

 

John surges forwards, meeting Moran head on. He cranks back his fist for a right hook. Moran begins to incrementally adjust his lunge so as to avoid the fist, but missed the moment when John abandoned that punch for a left-handed uppercut. Moran is fast, fast enough to pull his face back in the short amount of time before impact, lessening the blow. John feels a powerful jab to his left side as Moran used the momentum of his upward punch to take advantage of John’s unprotected ribs. John feels his entire torso flex, deflecting most of the damage off of his tensed muscles.

 

With too much adrenaline pumping for him to feel pain, John drops low, grabbing Moran about the waist, trying to bowl him over backwards. Moran throws himself forward, counteracting, and causing him to land rather heavily on John. The hard floor grinds against the back of John’s head as Moran takes advantage of his elevated position to kneel against John’s chest, his hands looking to fasten on John’s throat. John reaches up his right hand, clenching the right side of Moran’s neck while pushing his head sideways, interrupting Moran’s scrabbling fingers. With a fluid motion, John forces Moran to the ground, using his legs to steady himself against the sniper’s furious struggling. John brings back his arm, and with the force of a low-speed automobile collision, hits Moran square in the face.

 

John hears Moran let out an involuntary sound halfway between a snarl and a groan. Moran is now bleeding from both his nose and a cut on his top lip where John’s fist broke the skin. John takes the opportunity presented by Moran’s momentary pause to hit him again, his fist connecting with the sniper’s jaw. The larger man is stunned only for a few seconds. John feels Moran snap back to clarity as the sniper’s longer arms snake up and grab John by his upper arms. Moran pulls John slightly forward, then, with an enormous burst of strength, throws John backwards. John lands on his back, his legs still entangled with Moran’s, the wind knocked out of him.

 

John wastes no time in getting to his feet, despite feeling sluggishly disoriented. His balance returned with speed, and just in the nick of time. Moran had swung his arm outward in an arc that would have made direct contact with the side of John’s head, either knocking him out or delivering serious brain damage, but John avoided it by leaning backwards, his pose reminiscent of playing limbo. The fist sailed in front of and slightly over his face, and would have grazed his nose if he had been slower to react. 

 

John was just coming out of his backward bend, when Moran took the liberty of turning around and using his elbow to force John’s lips into contact with his teeth, splitting the skin viciously while knocking John to the ground. The taste of blood fueled John next action. The taste of blood spurred him on. The taste of blood, the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, trickling down his chin, down his throat, down the neck of his shirt filled him with reckless abandon.

 

A guttural rage-filled bellow exited his body as he jumped to his feet and ran head-on at Moran. John laughed inside at the look on Moran’s face; he’d obviously expected skill from John, but ferocity? Never would have dreamed it, judging by his uncertain step backwards. Moran’s every action opened up new potential ways to hurt him. The step back put him slightly off balance, so when John’s smaller yet compact body connected with his, the man was thrown clean off his feet. John’s battle-rage made him quicker, so that before Moran even hit the ground he was in a ready stance to kick the sniper’s ribs. John heard them crack, but the sound came from far away, his mind surrounded by a red fog.

 

Moran was lying on the ground cradling his ribs, his fetal position offering little protection from John’s onslaught of brutal ministrations. It was by pure fluke that Moran had been surprised by John’s fierce response to his last attack, affording John the advantage. No doubt their fight would have lasted much longer, perhaps even going on to almost an hour, their strength flagging with the effort of combating each other and their weariness.

 

John stood over Moran, who appeared to be unconscious. He continued to loom over him, waiting for Moran’s play of opossum to be over. John realized that the sniper wasn’t feigning. This discovery caused another war-cry to erupt from his mouth, blood misting into the air with the force of his voice. He found himself standing with his feet on either side of Moran’s chest, the toes of his shoes tucked underneath where the larger man’s arms connected to his torso, as he reach down and pulled Moran’s head upwards by his hair. He proceeded to kiss Moran’s lips, biting down, drawing more blood; ownership and rage and victory. His battle lust left no room for intimacy as he prepared to break Moran’s neck with a sharp twist.

 

He was crouched over the man’s chest, already starting the preliminary twist in the opposite direction of the way he was going to break Moran’s neck, to give it more force at the moment when he would finally allow his arms to play the part of the string that flung the spinning top into its dizzying circles. Something was making its presence dominant in his mind, was clearing away the red fog.

 

 _Ah, humanity, my old friend._ He was glad that he could rely upon his to stop him from crossing the line between defender to murderer. His breathing began to steady as he gently laid Moran’s head back on the ground.

 

He stood, and turned back towards flames surrounding the bed. The fuel or whatever had fed the fire had burnt itself out in some places, leaving a space wide enough for John to safely pass through after he stamped out a few more inches on either side of the opening. 

 

And there was Sherlock. He was curled with his back against the headboard, looking at John with something akin to fear in his eyes. _Now I’ve bloody well terrified my best friend. Fantastic._ John raises his hands in a gesture of peace as he walks around to one side of the bed, going straight for the ties. Sherlock’s hands are slightly purple with the lack of circulation. As soon as that wrist is free, Sherlock snatches it close to his body. John ignores this and quickly moves to the other hand. Same reaction with the other wrist.

 

John moves to sit at the end of the bed, his back to Sherlock. There’s a good 4 feet in between where John sits and Sherlock cowers. He hears Sherlock shift.

 

“You’re going to want to massage your hands and wrists; get the blood flowing. I’ll tend to the bruises once we get home,” John says, hoping that his quiet voice would calm Sherlock.

 

“Stay here for a bit. I’ll be back.” Sherlock still says nothing. John grabs the pillows off the bed as he leaves. John passes through the gap in the fire again. He feels relieved to be out of Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock’s shock and/or fear was really hurting and irking John.

 

John walks across the distance to Moran, noting the rather large amounts of blood on the floor. _His and mine._ John kneels on the floor near Moran’s head, gently lifting his rather battered skull off the ground, slipping one of the posh pillows underneath it. He checks the man’s vitals. The heartbeat was still strong. Some of the wounds had already stopped bleeding. Except for the fresh ones that John’s kiss had left. _Jesus H. Christ, I’m sorry mate._ He wiped the blood from Moran’s face, and then proceeded to lift first one eyelid, then the other. Concussion. John’s fingers probed over Moran’s ribs, noting that nearly all of the ribs down his left side were cracked, and a good portion on the right. His sternum appeared to be intact, and John leaned down to listen to the man’s breathing. A bit wheezy, but nothing to indicate a punctured lung. John laid the man’s arms neatly at his sides.

 

John stood. He took the other pillow with him as his went into the room adjoining this one. Moriarty was still on the ground where John had left him, the amount of blood on his person looking much more serious than it was. They’d had a slight scuffle (a few punches, one to the stomach and one to the face) before John managed to hook an arm around Moriarty’s neck and cut off his airway. John moved in close, giving him the same treatment; pillow, vitals— but stops when he hears Moriarty groan, his eyes opening and looking at him with unfocused eyes. His consciousness was only momentary as his head relaxed back into the pillow. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “ _kill you_ ” before his eyes roll back into his head. John suspects that he’ll be out for a few more hours at least. It seems like he may have hit his head pretty nicely on the hard floor when John dropped his unconscious body. Other than that, both men will live. With his doctorly duties done, he returns to Sherlock.

 

As John rounded the corner he was surprised by Sherlock as he pulled John into a rather too tight hug. John gasps slightly; the punch Moran gave him to the ribs seemed to have done some damage too. Sherlock doesn’t let go despite John’s wordless protest. Sherlock finally pulls back, his face creased as he looked over John’s wounds, which John was only now starting to feel. _I feel like I’ve been hit by a car and thrown down a steep, rocky incline._

“John, come sit down. You look like hell,” murmurs Sherlock. John settles on the floor in the middle of the room. Sherlock moves off, coming back with part of the bed sheet that he tore off. He leans in to start to clean John up.

 

“Sherlock, wait. Do you still have your mobile on you? Take a picture! I want to see how badass I look.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirks, but with a small smile he pulls out his phone, quickly snapping a photo and showing it to John. The photo-John looks more like the victim of a gang beating than the victor of a near-deadly battle, but hey, still badass what with all the blood and bruises. _Is it weird that I think I look more fetching covered in blood?_ He asks Sherlock, who turns away, obviously a bit embarrassed.

 

“Definitely more rugged looking. And yes, pretty badass looking too. Now how about we get your badass home before the more serious bruising begins to show up?” Sherlock’s reply makes John grin, but also makes him so much more aware of the cut on the underside of his lip.

 

“Send me that picture. I might just have to keep it. Memento of the great John Watson vs. Sebastian Moran fight.” He gets to his feet, pulling himself up using Sherlock’s proffered hand. “Let’s see if we can find a bathroom in this bloody place. I can’t imagine any cabbie would be willing to pick us up with me looking like a work at a slaughterhouse.”

 

Together they look around the flat; John’s limp returning as his body protests against the continued motion. Sherlock supports John with a hand around his back, clasping his body to John’s side, careful to avoid his injured ribs. They take little notice of the extravagance of the rooms around them, laughing with no little relief to finally find a room with running water in the maze of a flat. They end up with John sitting on the counter of the kitchen, Sherlock attending to his face with gentle attention. Just to rub their victory in further, Sherlock was using Moriarty’s expensive dish towels to mop up John’s face, leaving the more saturated ones on the counters, and the floor.

 

“John,” Sherlock began hesitantly.

 

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

 

“Erm, that moment when you kissed Seb. What was that about?” His face was sheepish, and there was a slight blush to his pale cheeks.

 

“I— it was nothing. It was just the heat of battle. Nothing meant by it. You can forget about it,” said John, his own face going scarlet.

 

“Right. Good. Okay. I mean, it would just be a pity if—" Sherlock abruptly stops speaking and wipes a little distractedly at the drying blood on John’s throat.

 

“How did you get here? How did you find me, anyhow? Last I remember you were at the clinic, and I was chasing a lead somewhere near Brixton.” Sherlock’s change of subject is a welcome one.

 

“First off, I took a cab. Smirk all you want; and the other bit… I don’t know if I should tell you.”

 

“Bollocks. Spill or I will just deduce it out of you. You know I can.”

 

“Fine! Jesus, you prying prat. I had Mycroft implant a micro tracking chip into the soles of all of your shoes. And into the collars of all your coats. He quite enjoyed the task, I must admit.” John blushed a bit more. He was waiting for Sherlock to explode into a rant about how John should, on no account, help his brother keep tabs on him. He looked up at the stretch of silence.

 

Sherlock’s face was strange. Smiling yet sad yet angry. His face finally settled for smiling.

 

“I have to say, brilliant on both your parts. I’ll admit I didn’t notice. Normally I should be furious with you, John Hamish Watson—,” His face stern, but relaxing again into a grin. “—but I’m just too damned glad that we’re both fine because of your little indiscretion.”

 

John laughs a little in his relief. He hops down off the counter, regretting it immediately

“Oh bollocks, my leg is acting up again. How about we get out of here before our friends back there wake up? Oh God, I can’t wait to get home and have a cup of tea and a lie-down.”

 

“Of course. Now that you are mildly less intimidating looking without all the blood we should be able to acquire a cab; though I must mention to you that your face is blooming with bruises rather colorfully. It’s quite interesting actually. Hold on a minute, I’m going to get a picture of your face.” Sherlock is suppressing quite a bit of laughter as he quickly replaces his mobile into the pocket of his slacks. “Alright let’s head out. May I escort you to your cab, dear sir?”

 

John rolls his eyes, but links his arms through Sherlock’s, leaning heavily on the arm. His leg will give him hell for the next few weeks, he can tell from the quality of the pins, needles, and stabbing pains that torture his leg even at the slow pace they clip towards the lift leading down to the ground floor of the expensive building.

 

The cabbie’s eyes look them over with a startled expression but he doesn’t stop them from getting in. Sherlock gives him the address, and they head off. The trip is longer than John remembers and he is soon asleep with his forehead resting against the glass.

 

John awakes to Sherlock gently patting his face. John finds himself lying with his head on Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock’s arms holding him. John sits up groggily, realizing that the taxi is stopped outside of 221 B Baker Street. He groans with relief. Sherlock grasps his arms and helps him out of the cab. John is sitting on the steps while Sherlock pays the cabbie, when Mrs. Hudson flings the door open and patters down the steps, wringing her hands at the state of them both.

 

“Oh dears, what have gone and done now? I don’t think my heart could deal with one of you getting seriously hurt, so why don’t you boys just give it a rest? Can’t you take pity on an old woman with a hip? I’ll be up shortly with some tea and biscuits. Lord knows you both could use it.”

 

Sherlock smiles lazily at her, telling her that tea would be lovely, thanks. John manages to stand and begins to hobble his way up the stairs, Sherlock’s hand on his elbow. He passes over the threshold and sighs. _It’s damn good to be back. There is no way I can make it in to the clinic tomorrow. I’ll have to call Sarah later._

They make it to the top of the stairs up to their flat without any real problems.

 

“Do you feel like showering? I can help you undress if you want. You seem to be having trouble just standing.”

 

“A shower would be nice, yeah.” John leads the way to the bathroom that’s on this floor. It’s technically Sherlock’s, so every surface is covered with miscellaneous objects. He leans against the wall as Sherlock turns on the shower. There was no time for John to collect his jumper once he realized Sherlock was missing so it was just a button-up over a plain white t-shirt. Sherlock uses his musician’s hands to deftly push the buttons out of their button-holes, pushing the shirt back over John’s shoulders. He moves his hands to the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it up. John lifts his arms, helping Sherlock maneuver it over his head. John is bone tired, and feels the cool bathroom tile pressed against his aching back, while Sherlock unbuttons his pants and zips down the fly pushing them down over John’s hips. Once the pants hit the floor and Sherlock helps John step out of them, he turns to John telling him that he’ll be back in a bit with some fresh clothes, leaving John in the bathroom. John shuts and locks the door, slipping out of his boxers, limping to the steaming shower.

 

The water thunders in John’s ears as he stands under the stream, feeling the heat begin to relax his sore muscles. He sees the last of the blood on him tint the water as it runs down the drain. He uses Sherlock’s soap, cleaning the battle off of his body and his soul. He sees huge bruises all over, the largest over his left side. He feels guilty about his treatment of Moran after his unconsciousness was confirmed. Where the hell did that possessive bite/kiss come from? He was a little scared of himself at the moment. Now that he’s safe, he stops to think over everything. _God, why can’t I just leave it alone? Am I trying to over-analyze this so that I can convince myself that I’m some sort of violent, hedonistic monster?_

 

John hears Sherlock enter. He locked the door, right? _Locked doors mean nothing to Sherlock, remember?_ He hears Sherlock moving things about.

 

“John, I’ve brought your favorite pajama bottoms, some boxers, and that gray t-shirt that I bought you for your birthday, and a fresh towel. Just let me know when you want to get up the stairs to your room. I’ll bring up your tea.”

 

“Thanks mate.”

 

John shuts off the water, peeking around the shower curtain. Sherlock had cleared a space on the counter to set the clean clothes on top of the towel. That’s actually very thoughtful of him, considering he could have just tossed them round the door onto the floor mat. Weirdest, best, most interesting flat-mate ever. He steps out of the shower into the air that turned frigid when Sherlock opened the door, glad that his leg didn’t give out, and lifts the clothes to get the towel. He dries off quickly, putting on the clean clothes, drying his hair once the warmth seeps back into his body. He sees his face in the fogged mirror and winces a little. He turns up his lip checking how serious the laceration is. Pretty bad, actually. He’ll probably need some stitches. His face has begun to swell. _Oh, how attractive._

 

“Sherlock.” John is standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Sherlock walks over quickly, stops, and starts laughing. John raises his eyebrow in indignation.

 

“Sorry John, but you look like shit. That combined with your hair sticking up in spikes…” He bursts out laughing again, his face underscored by the folds of his chin as his head is pulled back in laughter. He looks so ridiculous that soon John is laughing too, gingerly, his ribs sending out a twinge with each breath.

 

“You’re a right prat, laughing at me like that. Get your sodding arse over here and help me up the stairs.”

 

“Yes, John.” And with that they start the journey to the second bedroom that Mrs. Hudson thought they wouldn’t need.

 

John falls back on his bed after Sherlock had pulled back the blanket, the bruising on his back causing him to whimper a bit. Sherlock helps him to sit in a more upright position with his pillows stacked behind him. As Sherlock leaves to go get John’s tea and some painkillers, John is reminded of his act of mercy back at Moriarty’s flat.

 

His pondering is interrupted by the sound of Sherlock skipping steps as he races up with the tea and painkillers.

 

“Thanks.” John downs the pills and the entire mug of tea in one go. He hands it back to Sherlock and settles back into the pillows feeling his eyelids begin to drop over his eyes in his exhaustion.

 

“I’m glad you’re going to be fine,” Sherlock whispers as John fades from consciousness. John feels something small and warm pressed to his forehead. _Sherlock’s getting sentimental now? Forehead kissing? The world must be ending._


	3. Seb

 

Ouch. Everything.

 

Seb groans, the result of a failed attempt at sitting up. He feels his ribs shifting in unnatural ways beneath his skin. _The things I do for that tiny maniac… fucking ridiculous._ His whole body is cramping up and spasming, making it nigh impossible to get up off the flo— _where the hell did the pillow come from? Is Jim awake?_ He snorts to himself. Jim was definitely not the type to seek to comfort Seb for his loyalty. More likely to punish Seb for his failure. Or his success.

 

Breathing hurts. Not breathing hurts. _Shiiiiiiit…_

 

Seb tries to find a way to get himself up off the floor, making a plan of action, then stopping once some injury or other started to twang. He decides to wing it, ignoring the pain so long as he manages to get to his feet. He breathes in deep, ignoring the hot pain that is engulfing his body. He braces his arms on the floor, and starts to turn himself so that his face is pressed into the pillow. He supports his body above the floor, bringing one leg, then the other underneath him. He hears an odd rasping noise and a strangled cry, realizing after a moment that it came from him. His arms nearly give out underneath him as he used a last forceful push to bring himself upright, the agony engulfing him. Now he only had to worry about actually standing. _Great…_

 

What exactly happened? He remembers everything up until the point where Wats— surely they were on more intimate terms now? After all, it’s not every day that Seb gets his ass handed to him— where John took Seb’s elbow to the face, and then….something changed in John. He was no longer the cautious, companionable man that Seb had witnessed through his scope on all the stake-outs that Jim had sent him on, spying on their flat or on John at his clinic. The change had been so sudden and unexpected that Seb had felt himself falter _. That just doesn’t happen… I’m not the type to get surprised, scared, or careless._ Yet all of that happened. It was the truth. He had felt fear when he gazed into the eyes of the animal that used to be John Watson. If Seb was anything, he was brutally honest with himself.

 

He remembers John running at him, full tilt, a cry of primeval rage issuing from his lips. He remembers himself stepping back, uncertain, afraid. John colliding with him, John kicking his ribs. Punching him, and then nothing.

 

 _No…. wait …._ he remembers his scalp tingling with pain and something like hot air gusting around his lips.

 

 _No need to strain something else by trying to remember…_ No doubt the surveillance cameras in every room caught it all. He bunches the pillow beneath his fists bracing himself again, standing finally. He feels all the blood that appeared to pool underneath his head cool as it touched the air. The skin of his face felt tight. He recognized the feeling of dried blood on his flesh from countless other experiences. Nothing new.

 

He walked to the wall, feeling his body tense against every movement, every unnecessary shift that his regular walking pattern generated. He leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to it. He supposes that he should at the very least hold a grudge against John, both for the insults and the beating, but he finds he can’t. The hate is lost in a tide of admiration. He had already respected the man as a fellow ex-soldier, but now it had at least doubled.  This man was worthy, worthy in Seb’s eyes. A worthy enemy, rival, friend. Anyone who could prove themselves to Seb was in good company, even if he was ordered to kill them. His respect for them urged him to dole out their death with quick, steady hands, rather than dragging out their torment for as long as possible.

 

_Christ, I supposed I’d better check on Jim. If his bony arse is still unconscious, I’ll—_

 

Seb’s thoughts are cut off by the wash of dizziness that overtakes him, making the world rock as if it were a ship on a turbulent sea. He’d forgotten to check if Jim was actually alive when he ran through the room. All he’d seen was Jim on the floor, and Seb ran into the adjoining room, as rage filled him, ready to confront John. _Oh God, if he’s dead…..I’m going to kick his arse until my fucking foot falls off._

 

 He keeps his shoulder against the wall as he drags himself along it, not noticing the small smears of blood left on the wall by his shirt. He makes it to the doorway, the scene swimming before his eyes. Jim. Seb feels the tingling jolt of panic. Covered in blood, his limbs looking like those of a carelessly dropped rag doll. He looks dead. He looks so small and fragile, his gray suit and white shirt covered in blood, both drips and spatters. Seb notices that Jim has a pillow under his head too. _The hell…?_

He limps closer, dropping to his knees as softly as he can, lowering himself using the wall and the filing cabinet which also has Jim’s blood on it. It spreads underneath his fingers, streaking downwards as his hands slide down to maintain his stability as he reaches the ground.

 

“Jim. Jim, you daft sod!” He places his fingers on his boss’s throat, just under where his jaw connects to his skull. A soft heart beat thumps against his fingertips. Seb fills with relief. Jim’s eyes don’t open, despite Seb’s increasingly petulant remarks and audacious face-slapping _. Fucking out cold. The fuck am I supposed to do now?_ He leans back on his heels, merely staring down at his employer. _He looks like a child right now. Well, aside from the sparse facial hair and blood. You know what? He’s completely out. Go take care of yourself first._

He smirks down at the pale face now that his status is confirmed as living, and forces himself to stand. He limps out the door and to the nearest bathroom. He spots his face in the mirror as he walked past to grab a towel and does a double take. _Holy shit!_ Both of his eyes are nearly closed with how much his face is swelling. _How did I not notice that? IS THAT A FUCKING BITE-MARK?_ _Ok, now I definitely need to see the footage of this shit._

 

He hurriedly dampens the towel, carefully dragging it across his face, the dried blood starting to come away, revealing more of the damage that hid underneath. He rinses the blood from the cut in his mouth, where his teeth spliced the skin, the dark red water fading to pink as the worst of it was washed down. The angle that he was leaning forward towards the mirror at was hurting his ribs and his back, but he ignored its stinging jolts of pain. The blood that had flowed down into his hair from his face when he was lying on the ground had started to dry, staining his nearly white-blond hair. With his face slightly cleaner than it was before, he proceeds to lift up his plain black t-shirt, admiring the spectacular bruising that mottled his entire abdomen, no doubt continuing all the way around his back as well. He gave himself a once over, checking for other bones ( _ASIDE FROM ALL MY GODDAMN RIBS!_ )that might have been fractured or broken. _The Army Doctor definitely knows the proper way to beat the hell out of a man_ , he thinks to himself as he surveys the damage one last time before letting his shirt fall.

 

He heads out of the bathroom, back to Jim. Jim had apparently been thrashing around a bit, as his head had slipped off the pillow and limbs were in a different position than before. _The bloody dandy was defenseless against John. Why the hell hasn’t he learned to defend himself?_ He leans down, ignoring the disturbing grinding sensation of his ribcage and slips his powerful arms under the small man. Jim’s head lolls over Seb’s arm, rocking with his footsteps. Jim’s body against Seb’s chest was taking all his concentration as he tried not to drop Jim with how much pain he was in. _He hired me for my crack shot, my endurance, and my tolerance for pain, not my good looks… well…_

 

No matter how slender and light Jim might have been, whatever small weight he possessed was crushing Seb’s ribs. _Fucking hell_ , he thought bitterly, ignoring it long enough to quickly walk into the living room, laying the smaller man on the couch. He walked into the kitchen, staring at the bloody dish rags everywhere. _John’s blood_. Probably some of his own on those too. He picks them up, stowing them away in the trashcan. He grabs a roll of paper towels and puts some warm water in a bowl, walking quickly, not even spilling a drop. He sits on the couch in the space left by the inward curve of Jim’s waist, He turns to the coffee table where he’d set the bowl, tears off a paper towel and dips one corner into the bowl, watching the water as it climbed, raced up the fibers. He crumples the paper towel in his hands, distributing the water to the drier parts, the excess dripping back into the bowl. He turns to Jim, whose forehead is creased in his sleep, worry lines forming between his eyes. Seb dabs the paper towel to Jim’s mouth, and his top lip, since most of the blood came from his nose and the cuts on the underside of his lips. _It seems like everyone in this bloody incident got the same wound. John from my elbow, me from John’s punch, and Jim, also from John. Holmes is missing out,_ he thought cynically, continuing to wipe the blood from his boss’s face. Seb sees Jim grimace as he pressed a little bit harder than he should on his bottom lip, seeing the blood that has started to dry and thicken on Jim’s teeth as his lips pulled back. _He’ll be fine._

 

Seb leans back in the seated position he has against Jim’s side as he tosses the bloody paper towel onto the coffee table, the smaller man’s body trapped under his back. His shoulders meet the back of the couch, where he finds the TV remotes sitting. He punches in the code for the surveillance cameras, feeling Jim’s steady breathing and body warmth. He selects Camera 2, the one in the bedroom. He fast forwards through most of it, having been there, he felt no need to watch it, finally playing it from the part where he elbows John. He feels a frisson just watching the change in the man, his posture and demeanor altered. Even though the volume on the TV is low, the sound of John’s yell is surprisingly loud.

 

He watches in grim silence as he sees himself knocked to the ground, watching John’s frenzied blows force him into oblivion. He sees John standing over him, waiting for something that doesn’t come, then yelling—no, roaring— in that wordless language that is known to all animals. Victory. John crouches down over his body, pulling his head up by his hair. Seb reaches back, massaging his scalp, discovering more bruises, feeling his head wince in sympathy to what he was seeing. He feels confusion bloom in his chest. John pulls Seb’s face to his, kissing, biting, possessing. Seb feels a strange lurching sensation in his stomach, not sure whether it was disgust or something more… _Something that I will be suppressing ‘til the end of my days._ He reaches a hand to his mouth, feeling the red dips in his flesh, in two arches, one across Seb’s top lip and one down, just underneath his bottom lip, where John’s teeth had marred his skin. _These will probably scar…_ He found that he didn’t mind that idea.

 

He feels Jim begin to shift underneath his back, his hands pushing against Seb’s side in an effort to push him off. Seb pauses the recording.

 

“You great, mangy bastard. You’re crushing me.” Jim’s voice is low, quiet and raspy, like someone waking up from a long nap. When Seb doesn’t move, Jim turns onto his side, facing the TV, with his head on one of the throw pillows. Seb scoots back, taking advantage of the extra space provided by Jim’s change in position. Jim makes a whining groan, a noise of complaint, but does nothing. Now that Seb is sitting on a good half of the cushion, he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

 

“I’ve just been looking over the surveillance tape. D’you want me to start it from the beginning?” Seb looks down at the man sandwiched between him and the couch.

 

“Nah, just play it from here. From looks of it you got a little bit of lip-action while I was knocked out.” The tape was paused at the moment when John’s mouth was latched on to Seb’s face. “John knows how to show a boy a good time, eh Seb?” His face was set in that sneer, that smirk, that look that makes everyone rise to the bait. Seb looks down, completely unperturbed, and gives Jim a crooked smile. He’d long grown immune to Jim’s petty jibes, often infuriating the little man with his composure.

 

“Jealous?” Seb knows just the right things to say. Jim’s face gets a peeved look. His attempt at breaking Seb’s cool has backfired.

 

“Play the damned tape,” is all he gets in response. Seb and Jim were not together, had never been, and would never be. Despite all the whispers around Jim’s office, they were still Employer and Employee. Well, maybe more like….friends? No, Seb isn’t sure what this is. Seb was the only one that wasn’t scared stiff of Jim, who didn’t piss themselves when he yelled. He’d refused, pointblank, to be intimidated and that had somehow endeared him to the little man. He was the closest thing to a friend that Jim had, and that was an entirely different thing than either of them had experienced. Being Jim’s “friend” did not follow the normal standards for normal people. This was entirely new territory.

 

Working together and travelling together. Fighting and nearly dying together. Seb being the steady hand, while Jim was the unpredictable tempest. Sharing hotel rooms in Germany, beds in Thailand, and the same pile of hay in some small village in South America. These things had made them close. Unaccountably close. Any qualms over personal space, or privacy had long been tossed out the window. The fact that Jim didn’t have Seb killed for using him as a pillow, let alone refusing to move when he was told, was indicative of how close they were. The fact that Seb hadn’t moved when he found that Jim was spooning around him as he sat on the couch, or that he began idly playing with a belt loop on Seb’s jeans showed how comfortable they were with each other.

 

Seb leaned back again, this time hissing a bit as the bruising on his back was stabbed by Jim’s bony hip and ribs. Jim obligingly adjusted his position, tilting back a bit, so that Seb’s back encountered only the soft plane of Jim’s stomach. Seb smiled his thanks without looking at Jim, knowing he could see it in the harsh light of the TV. He settles back a little more, hits play.

 

John’s face leaves Seb’s. It now has more blood on it than before, smeared around his lips. He watches as John grasps his head, one hand on the back, another on his forehead, readying to sharply twist his neck until it snaps. Seb is tensed the entire time that he watches. John goes still for a moment, his shoulders relax and his face is once more back to its state of open kindness. John sets his head down on the ground. _God, that’s weird. Seeing myself lying defenseless at his feet._ Jim doesn’t seem to like it either. His expression has once again become stony.

 

John walks over to the edge of the frame, tamping out part of the fire, and unties Sherlock, who seems to be extremely wary of John. _Understandable._ Seb knew the feeling. They sit, John facing the camera, his back to Sherlock, who appears to be trying to cope. John speaks, but his voice is almost too faint to hear due to his distance from the cam.

 

Seb notes that John picks up the pillows, carrying them away from the bed. _That explains it…the pillows._ Seeing John being so gentle with someone, holding Seb’s head carefully as he slips the pillow under it, who was attempting to kill him not 10 minutes ago seemed to go against Seb’s intuition _. Ah well, army DOCTOR. To be expected, it was his job to heal those wounded in battle. Not so divergent from John’s personality…_ Seb sees the apology in John’s face when he wipes some blood from the bite mark, watching John go on to check him over for life-threatening injuries. _This man is just…puzzling. A good man. A determined man. Fighting like a berserker for his friend, a friend who never seemed to realize the extent of his dedication and loyalty. Utterly brilliant._ Seb recalls the way that John outright refused to have anything to do with Jim’s organization, not even the least bit tempted by the sum that he was offered, a sum that would make him richer than a king.

 

Seb’s attention is drawn back to the screen in front of him as he sees John leave the frame entirely, headed in the direction of the space used as Jim’s study. Seb was about to go to the menu to select the camera for Jim’s study when Jim spoke.

 

“No, leave it. Let’s see what he does.”

 

He being Sherlock. Sherlock had left the bed, was pacing the floor in the middle of the room. He was obviously agitated. After a few more lengths across the room, he stops, rolls back his shoulders and walks determinedly towards the door that John had entered.

 

“Mmm, you can change it now.” His voice was entirely bored sounding. _He only does his bored voice when he’s trying to hide that he’s extremely interested in something. What in the hell has caught his attention now?_ Seb decides to leave it be, figuring he’ll ask later.

 

Seb pushes the select button over the highlighted “Camera 3” text. Seb starts it from the beginning, since he could only guess what went on in that room. Jim sitting behind his expensive desk, writing on his expensive stationery with his expensive fountain pen.

 

“Posh twat,” Seb mumbles quietly, smiling. Jim gently knees him in the ribs, knowing exactly how much pressure to use so that it hurt a bit, but not enough for Seb to move. Seb reaches back, pinches Jim’s arm. Jim whines like a child, but they continue to sit in their odd Spoon-Pillow position. A text alert buzzes from Jim’s phone in the video.

 

“That was the alert that there was a break in. John, the dear, walked right in the front door,” Jim’s voice quivering with a laugh. “I have to give him credit for that. I always admire a good entrance.”

 

Video-Jim smiles smugly, calls out to John.

 

“In here, Mr. Watson. Pleased to see you found me.”

 

John enters the frame, his expression one of thinly veiled rage, his voice low and deadly quiet.

 

“Where’s Sherlock? I know you two have had it out for each other since time bloody began, and he had no major cases this week, so he had no real reason not to answer my texts. Bloody dots connected. Where—is—Sherlock?”

 

“Let’s not be hasty, _sweetheart_. Daddy’s got _bigger_ things to think about than a _gangly_ detective. What makes you so sure he’s here? And if he was here, what makes you think he didn’t just drop by to have a pleasant chat over some tea and Jammie Dodgers? We are honestly on quite good terms, Sherlock and I. Why all the resentment, Doctor Watson? You’re not still sore over the Pool, are you? I’d ask for forgiveness but—,” dramatic shrug. “—I regret nothing.”

 

Seb smiles. Typical Jim, talking his way into a corner, just to prove to himself he can Houdini his way out. This appeared to be the wrong day to toy with John, though.

 

“First off, Sherlock is the singular most important part of your psycho-obsession. Secondly, I tracked him here. Thirdly, Sherlock doesn’t like to go out when he knows that Nova has a new film out. And, yes, I am rather pissed off over the Pool incident.” His voice had risen in volume as he spoke, until he was practically shouting the last bit.

 

Jim looked at John from across the desk, the Army Doctor standing stiffly. Jim lazily pulled out his phone, his fingers lazily pressing the buttons, lazily sending off a text.

 

“And that’s when I sent you the text,” says Jim from where he was curled, his body like a heater against Seb’s aching back. Seb remembers the pang of fear he got when he read the text. He remembers how he rapidly packed up his gun, flicking the safety on, detaching the bipod that held up the barrel. He literally tripped over himself in his haste to get to his car which was parked in a back alley, abandoning the meeting across the street he was meant to be eavesdropping on.

 

**_Might be dead when you get back. Watson._ **

**_-JM_ **

 

Video-Jim slips his phone into the front inner pocket of his jacket, smiling a John.

 

“Alright, Mr. Watson. This is getting tedious.” Jim had moved to stand up. John had moved to close in.

 

“I agree,” was all that John said before he moved to run around the desk. Jim waited until John had almost rounded the corner, almost reached him, before running off around the desk, a gleeful expression on his face. _They really look like children now, both short, both chasing around a desk. For God’s sake, Jim is SUCH a kid despite all of his clever schemes and worldwide connections to the most dangerous organizations._

Seb turned his head to look down and Jim, his eyebrow raised. Jim just continued to grin.

 

John had had enough of this game, vaulting over the desk and blocking Jim’s way. Jim’s odd laugh sounded even stranger coming out of the TV. _That laugh._ Seb smiles again. _Such a little freak. Only you would laugh at getting caught._ John delivered a swift punch to Jim’s stomach, causing his laugh to go down a few octaves.

 

“ _Oh, ho, ho_. Johnny Boy, that was GOOD, _GOOOOD!_ ” Seb is chilled for a moment. He remembers the Pool as well. He remembers Jim using those words when John had grabbed him from behind, intending to take Jim with him if he were to detonate. He knows that Jim is using them now to throw John into a rage. Those words illicit a stinging punch to the face for Jim, his nose beginning to drip blood, blood that flows fast. And now Jim smiles, his back against the wall where the force of John’s punch had thrown him, his white teeth shining red with the blood from the cut to his lip, dripping down over his chin and onto the white of his shirt. He looks like a devil. A devil from one of those shows, modernized, making the devil out to be this chic, fashionable, suave being. Jim continues to smile as John grapples with him, struggling exaggeratedly, only fueling John’s rage. John gets around the back of Jim, the crook of his elbow hooked right over Jim’s adam’s apple. Jim maintains his manic smiling and laughing until the moment when his eyes roll back into his skull and his face goes slack. John rushes through the second door into the room where Sherlock was being kept.

 

“And here’s where I come in,” Seb whispers, his demeanor one of something melancholy. The video showing Seb stop in the doorway, glance at Jim, and race on into the other room.

 

“What happens between you and John in the other room? And you filthy cunt, why didn’t you actually check to see if I was ok? My soul is crushed by your lack of consideration!” Jim utters these words without looking at Seb’s face, not noticing how pensive he is.

 

“I’d assumed you were already dead and I was eager to take my revenge. That was quite a lot of fucking blood Jim. Besides, you just love the idea of me being torn up over you dying. He got you in the stomach pretty good. Am I hurting you?” Jim shakes his head, looking content to be where he was.

 

Seb fast forwards to when John enters the study again, sees him put the pillow under Jim’s head. Jim snorts.

 

“A bit oxymoronic, isn’t he? He hits me, and then decides to make sure I’m ok. Should’ve just left me there, it’s what I would have done.” Jim has a smile of amused puzzlement on his face as he watches the doctor. _Well, John is not you. No one is you, actually. Even Holmes might have checked on someone he’s just attacked, once his objective had been achieved._ Seb says nothing to Jim.

 

He switches back to Camera 2, and as John is walking out of the room he is met with a rather impromptu hug, and Seb hears him gasp as his ribs are squeezed. Seb’s fist aches in memory of causing that wound. I should probably find some painkillers, he thinks, after realizing that there had been a steadily increasing ache throbbing all over.

 

“So senti _MENTAL_ , Sherlock! Never would have guessed.” Jim’s mocking singsong voice brought back a tiny smirk at the corner of Seb’s lips.

 

Seb selects Camera 4, the kitchen, fast forwarding, watching as John and Sherlock enter the kitchen, and John sits on the counter while Sherlock cleans him up, every move of their heads, every gesture looking absurd at this speed. John jumps down, nearly falls, they leave. The end.

 

Seb sits.

 

“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” He finally voices what’s been bothering him.

 

“And why would I do that, Sebby? I knew you’d get here on time.”

 

“I didn’t get here on time. You were already out cold. Why didn’t you defend yourself? I understand the taunting and all that. Do you even know how to defend yourself?” Seb asks this in frustration.

 

“I’m handy with a knife and gun, but Sebastian, darling, hand-to-hand combat is what I pay _you_ for.” Jim’s expression is sardonic.

 

“God, Jim that was so bloody stupid of you! He could have actually killed you! And you would have sat there, smiling the entire time! You need to learn some self-defense, maybe even some martial arts.”

 

“Then teach me,” Jim replies, his face set in a smug grin as Seb sighs with exasperation.

 


	4. Jim

Brightly lit room, fluorescence burning. He looks down to find himself sitting at a desk, typing away at an out-of-date computer, the hum of the vents near constant. His arse is numb from the poor quality of the chair he sits on. His neck is sore from looking down while he watches himself type out each word, his inexperience betraying him. His eyes are watering from the brightness of the lights, and the strain of reading the dim screen.  _I need to hurry up and get these diagnostics to Mr.—_

 

His thoughts are interrupted.

 

“You’re ordinary. Boring. Look at you, not even fit to play your own games. You’re nothing like me. You’re common, painfully mediocre,” drawls a voice to his right, but out of range of his periphery. He knows the voice. That voice with its deep and heavy sneer.

 

He feels panic. He types faster, not daring to turn his head, feeling the creeping urge to scream as he feels the presence of that voice move closer. The shift in the air around his right ear is noticeable, but there is no sound now, only muffled silence. Then it speaks again.

 

“ _What is…the point…of you?_ ” The voice had whispered these words with such vehemence that it felt as though the question was echoing around in his brain. He had no answer for it. He was just Jim from IT who never went to office parties, and always parked on the second level, who chatted with Melanie from over his cubicle wall. He hadn’t gotten a parking ticket since he was 18, or gotten fully drunk since 23 _. Why—? What—? What do you want?!_ He found he couldn’t speak, his mouth clenched shut with concentration, his fingers still typing out that same document.

 

“Ordinary, boring, tiresome Jim. Oh, what will I do with you now?” His entire body was shaking now, the fear was overwhelming. His eyes watched himself typing, missing the correct key, garbling the words. He felt tears sting his eyes. Then a figure appeared just at the corner of his right eye, its shape tall and tapered. Panic, panic, panic. It was circling now into his line of sight, the fluorescent lights giving it a halo, a halo which burned like an eclipse from around its head which was the blackest of shadows. _An angel? A demon? Oh God…_

 

“Don’t fool yourself. There is nothing benign about me. The second option though…leaves so much room for mischief,” said the voice with a malevolence that would have made flowers wither, if there had been anything but silk plants in the office.

 

The figure bent forwards, bringing its corona of light with it, blinding Jim with its brightness. He felt his eyes begin to sear with pain, and soon everything was white, an odd whooshing noise playing in his ears. His scream tore at his throat, as he felt blood trickle down his esophagus, choking him.

 

_HELP ME, HELP ME, HE—_

 

Dawn forced its way through the edges of the curtains of Jim’s room; pointedly settling over his eyes as time went by, forcing him to wakefulness. His eyes snap open, and he lies still, getting his bearings, while his heart beat calms and the sweat on his body cools. His room, his bed. His walls with the expensive damask wallpaper that he got himself to mark the occasion of his first break-in to Baker Street. His hands are clenched in the expensive sage-green silk sheets, the joints feeling as if they will never release. _Come now, Jim. Don’t be so pathetic._ With this thought his hands let go of the sheets, and the soreness of having them clenched for however long he was in the throes of that dream comes flooding into each delicate muscle and knuckle. His hands are shaking now, and not just with the recent return of feeling into them, but with the force of his own self-loathing for having the same dream 5 times in a row now. For feeling the same fear and panic, 5 times in a row. _Jimmy Boy, we need to have a talk_ , he thinks to himself, knowing full well that Seb would be alarmed that Jim was thinking about himself as a second party to his own thoughts.

 

 _Ah, Seb. My rock in this sea of bullshit._ He finds himself laughing at that thought, laughing more than he should. He’s giggling in quiet hysterics, turning his face into his pillow to smother the odd gasping noise. He keeps his face pressed against the pillow, feeling himself get lightheaded with the effort of pulling in air through the dense pillow. He presses his face into it further, suffocating, an easy way to die. _But that would be boring, ordinary. Seb would be pissed._ He eases up on the pressure, feeling the air of the room find its way into his lungs, feeling cool and clean.

 

His face still in the pillow, he goes over the events of last night. _Skip over the boring parts, sweetheart! Get to the good stuff!_ His mental replay of the events speeds through everything, finally playing in real-time. _MUCH better_. Now this is something to think over.

 

It’s around 3 AM of the night when Johnny came to rescue his princess (he got a huge amount of joy from referring to Sherlock like this), and Jim and Seb had only been conscious for the past 2 hours. Seb had just fallen asleep, his large frame pinning Jim to the couch. Jim had reached, with a clever hand, for the remote which had fallen onto the couch from Seb’s lap. Jim had taken a moment to look at the outline of the man whose head was resting on the back of the couch, his neck extended, his arms folded over his chest _. Ah, the peace of sleep. Sebby, you can’t pull off the look of innocence even in sleep. You have the word Killer etched into every angle of your face, and it’s gorgeous! And only you, dearest, would DARE to fall asleep on me. Any other pitiful ape on this planet would be dead by now._

 

He’d given his sleeping…bodyguard? No, too impersonal. Friend? Not quite right. Calling him a Platonist would just be too wordy. Lover was an odd combination of the right terms but the wrong idea. _The need to define things is just so horribly human. Can’t we just AVOID the compulsive categorization for just a minute, boys and girls?_ He’d given his sleeping _Seb_ one last smile before returning his gaze to the screen.

 

His deft hands had pulled up the video feed, selecting the camera in the living room. He’d fast forwarded until the moment when Seb had entered frame, carrying Jim’s own slight body with him. The pained look on Seb’s face was just precious.  He watched himself being laid down on the couch, Seb disappearing back in the direction of the kitchen, only to return seconds later with paper towels and water. The near tenderness with which Seb tended him had made him chortle, his quiet laughter causing his flexing stomach to shift Seb, nearly rousing him from his sleep. _Seb, the nurse, Seb the mother hen, Seb the savior._

His continued laughter had caused Seb to sit up angrily, groggily, complaining in a sleepy voice (“Lousy git.”). Seb had then moved to the other end of the couch and laid his head on the arm, the couch just long enough that their feet didn’t touch towards the middle. Jim had then felt the cool of the room descend upon his torso, pulling the pillow from under his head and clasping it to his middle. He’d turned off the TV moments later, standing in the near darkness, dropping the heavy pillow on Seb as he’d walked past, getting another vaguely foul-mouthed, slurred response.

 

He then returned to his roo— _Blah, blah, blah, went to sleep, blah, had a nightmare, blah, wakens in a pitiful state._

 

 _AND HERE WE ARE! Now let’s get on with it!_ He thinks this rather violently, adding some sort of mental flourish to the end of it. He propels himself off of his ridiculously expensive bed, the canopy open, as he’d left it last night. He hums The Thieving Magpie Overture as he makes his way into the master bathroom, doing a gentle side-to-side step. He’s still wearing his undershirt and slacks, but manages to dance out of these as he makes his way over to the walk-in shower, clicking the remote that is in its holster on the outside of the door, turning on the hot water. Standing in only his boxer-briefs he turns to the floor length mirror that runs across one entire wall of the room, and lifts his arms skywards in a pose of victory. The climax of the Overture is playing in his head as he hums it, using its final dizzying barrage of notes to escort him into the door of the shower, the steam billowing around him as he slides out of the briefs and into the vaporous wonderland of a scalding shower.

 

The light shining through the fogged glass of the shower door shifted as the droplets that formed on the glass sent their shadows against the far wall of the tiled space, then made their merry dash downwards, dazzling him as he tied up the horrors of his dream, sticking it into some cold little metal locker in his mind. He continues to hum and step, even as he shampoos his hair, conditions, soaps himself. His mind is wired right now, as he tramples over his doubts, washing them down the drain, watching the bubbles get sucked into it like a whirlpool, whisking away all the self-loathing. He pictures himself to be some shining being, whose whim was law, was devastation. _Not too far from reality_ , he thinks to himself with a grin that could turn blood cold.

 

With the World of Jim back to its normal setting of Overlord of All, he steps out of the shower, looks into the mirror, and sees the shining being. The coal black hair and eyebrows only enhance the effect, the light glinting and glaring off of him as the water continues to drip down his body. His eyes are dark chasms, their darkness and depth unfathomable. All is as it should be.

 

_I am Death, and Life, and Despair, but not Hope. Never was there Hope for ye who cometh into my Dominion._

 

With this last sentiment fresh in his mind, he walks, feeling his body purr. His mind feels quick, his countenance showing every ounce of the rejuvenation that he was feeling. The raw power that he feels just under his skin is invigorating. _I feel like breaking something valuable. Something precious. All in good time._

 

The towel that he drapes over his shoulders is his royal mantle. He is King. His thoughts deigned to ponder those under his rule. _Their puny, pathetic minds, unable to even guess at who holds their lives in the palm of his haaaand. That is the true tragedy. Nothing I could ever do could amount to such horror. Such potential squandered on common things._

He towels himself dry, flinging the towel onto the wet tile, leaving it lying like the body of some wayward employee of his. _Speaking of wayward employees…Jensen’s failure is unacceptable. She must be taken care of. Oh the choices, choices, choices! I find myself favoring public assassination today, just to give my peasants a nice little scare. I can see the headlines now: RANDOM SHOOTING, NO SUSPECTS, NO ONE IS SAFE._ Jim laughs at the irony of the last part. _None of you are safe with me at the wheel, honey._

 

His web, his connections, his maze, so thick and twisting that no one was sure where any order originated. _No one ever gets to me, no matter how obvious I make myself. I am untouchable._

He gives himself a small mental slap on the back of the head. He remembers noticing the signs, the messages that Sherlock had left him when he’d cracked cold cases that Jim’s organizations had left in their wake. Sherlock had known he was behind it, but could never find any evidence to prove it, only ever managing to trace it back two or three layers. Jim’s organization was infinitely layered, each order trickling down the proper channels quickly, but filtered enough to wipe out the original identity of whoever had given it.

 

With a begrudging smile he denies it no longer. _Okay! So maybe Sherlock got to my doorstep, but I still got away with it._ Sherlock had skipped from attempting to find information that no longer existed, straight to contacting Jim, something that had never happened before. Who would dare to suspect a rich, well known, remarkably intelligent young physics professor who’d retired early to write books on his studies? _No one. Not the police, not Holmes the Older, not ANYONE._

With a deep breath inwards, he rolled his neck from side to side, stretching. His exhale brought another, more genuine smile to his lips. He sauntered over to his chest-of-drawers, selecting his clean briefs and dark grey jeans with short black socks, slipping into them, proceeding to his wardrobe with oiled joints, stalking with his easy grace. The clothes inside were all dry-cleaned, even his street clothes. He takes out a dark purple v-neck t-shirt, and a thin black zip-up jacket with a hood, each choice intentional to the extreme. Every color scheme had its own significance, each style its own intention. Despite over 75% of his wardrobe being suits, the rest was casual. He could blend so easily with the cattle when he chose.

 

Grey for deceit, purple for malevolence, black for death, the casual style to indicate that this was a personal matter, abandoning his businessman façade. _No matter what I wear, I knock ‘em dead_ , he thinks to himself with glee, laughing at his own pun, _I’m Mr. Sex._

“Showtime, Mr. Sex. You’re on in 5,” he whispers to himself. He stands just in front of the door to his room, his fingers resting on the handles of the double doors. He counts down the five minutes, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. _3, 2, 1…_

The doors part in front of his eyes, the long rectangle of space widening to reveal the room beyond. He steps out, his posture one of complete confidence as he strides into the living room where Seb is still asleep on the couch. Seb always insisted on sleeping on the couch rather than the guest-room-turned-hostage-chamber that Jim had prepared for him when he’d decided to get a live-in bodyguard. He remembered the auditions (it amused him to think of the trials like that) that he’d hosted for who would get the honor, and unsurprisingly, few volunteered. Of the small group that did, Seb was the only one who had enough skill to back up the audacity it took to volunteer. Perhaps Seb chose the couch because wanted to be closer to the front door in case someone broke in, or maybe he just wanted to be within shouting distance of Jim, just in case.

 

Jim creeps around the couch, leaning on the back, looking down at the sniper as he sleeps on. Seb’s white-blond hair is still dark with blood, and he smells like he hasn’t showered in a week. _You must get all the ladies with that musk, am I right?_ Seb’s face was covered in stubble, and his skin gold with a fading tan. He considers whether or not he should go back in his room and scream bloody murder just to see Seb rush in with fear in his eyes. _Nah, I’ll save that for a rainy day_.

 

“Some bodyguard you are,” he says loudly. Seb’s hand shoots upwards, closing tightly Jim’s throat before he had a chance to move.

 

“Knew you were up. I could hear you humming from out here, not to mention prancing around like an elephant.” Jim would say that Seb’s expression was gloating if he didn’t know better. Jim lazily raises a hand and pries Seb’s fingers off his neck.

 

“Careful, poppet, wouldn’t want to _damage_ the merchandise. The more marks, the less _caaash_.” He draws out the last word as he straightens up, making a delightfully odd face as he does so. He goes into the kitchen, all of the appliances gleaming. _Oh goodness me, look at how domestic I’ve gotten. Making breakfast and coffee for Seb. I feel like a housewife from the 50’s, working tirelessly all day, only to have to fix tea and dinner once the family gets home._

 

His quick hands prepare the coffee, plucking an individual filter from the orderly stack that sits inside its plastic wrapping in the cupboard. He crosses to the coffee machine quickly, inserting the filter, and filling the water tank. Its shiny alloy outside reflects his face back at him as he put the grounds into the filter, and he gives himself a winning smile. He can feel Seb’s eyes on him as he does these things.

 

“Go clean yourself up. You look like you’ve been trampled by a heard of bulls. You remember when we saw that old woman get gored in Mallorca? That’s you, Seb.” His tone was one of sickeningly sweet concern, paired with the glaring laughter that he held in his eyes.

 

“Sod off.”

 

“Oh goody! Make sure to put your towel in the hamper like a dear! Come now, precious, don’t give me that look.” Seb’s face was utterly devoid of amusement. Jim takes out his phone, goes to his contacts and selects Seb’s name, and send him a text.

 

**LOL. I used all the hot water.**

**-JM**

 

He hears Seb’s text alert go off from the bathroom near the guest room. He’s laughing to himself as he continues about his business, waiting to hear Seb’s outburst, when his own phone goes off.

 

**Ha. Ha. Aren’t you sweet. I’ve had worse.**

**Besides, I grabbed the sheet from**

**your bed for a towel.**

**-SM**

 

Jim rolls his eyes, grabbing some eggs out of the fridge. He sets them on the counter, the better to text poutily.

 

**Seb, you’re no fun.**

**-JM**

**You don’t pay me for fun the**

**last time I checked. I’m showering**

**now, so stop texting me.**

**-SM**

**:PPPPPPPPPPPP**

**-JM**

Before Jim starts the real work, he goes into the living room and turns on his stereo-system, perusing through his music that has lots of bass. _Hmm, Seven Nation Army, Glitch Mob Remix? Perfect._ Once the song gets past the first few quiet seconds the volume of the bass and the piercing techno-esque noise fills the room, vibrating through Jim’s socked feet and wherever else he touched the counters.

 

The song repeats 3 times before Seb finally emerges from the shower, his hair still damp and his clothes changed, indicating he’d managed to sneak out of the bathroom and reach his “closet” which was just down the hall from kitchen. By then, Jim has their food on the café counter, each plate set in front of one of the spinning seats.

 

“Busy day, Sebastian. Eat quickly.” Jim is already halfway through his food, and has finished his coffee.

 

“What going on today?” Seb sits down, and starts in, his black coffee with two sugars was already waiting for him to drink. Jim pays attention to his Seb’s preferences. He’s never had anyone to do these little things for. _Oh great, now I’m a hypocrite for mocking Sherlock about his attachment to John Boy._ Jim goes pensive for a moment. _Does this really count as attachment? I make him breakfast and let him move in— well fucking hell, I sound like the best spouse in the world right now._

“I’m going to set up a hit, and then we’re going to drop by Baker Street for a little look-see. I’m in the mood to stir up trouble.” Jim carries his plate to the stainless steel sink, each side of it large enough for an adult to take a bath in if the fancy struck them.

 

“Can’t you take a day off? For the sake of the mundane?”

 

Jim goes silent, his body completely still. Even his breathing no longer makes a sound.

 

“We’re going to drop by Baker Street. We’re going to break in. And then the rest of the day is free.” Jim continues on, ignoring Seb’s interruption.

 

“Hmm, I’m not really liking the Baker Street bit. Considering last night, it won’t be a good idea to clash with John and Holmes for at least another month.” Seb, who is eating his food, doesn’t notice the silence yet.

 

“We’re going to drop by Baker Street.” His voice brooks no argument, and the intensity of his gaze would cut diamonds if it was any sharper.

 

Seb finally looks up. Jim’s face is like cut glass.

 

“Jim….” Seb’s voice is quiet, unsure.

 

“Sebastian. Remember you place.” Jim feels his voice go deadly quiet.

 

Jim’s anger is filling inside him, the heat of it, leaving his skin aflame. The mention of “mundane” was setting him off, bringing back the dream which he’d so thoroughly washed away.

 

Seb sits back in his chair, staring Jim full in the face, unabashed by his fiery gaze.

 

“Jim, calm down. If I have to restrain you, you know I will.” The idea of Seb holding him down, preventing him from exacting whatever horrifying act filled itself into the blank of “I Am Going To _______ until you die a painful death”  completely sent Jim wild. He stood, more than ready to feel and cause pain. When Seb refused to be coerced into fighting, Jim stood and calmly walked to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a gun.

 

“Jim. Stop fucking about. Explain to me what’s going on. If you want to go to Baker Street, fine.” Seb’s voice is placating, but doesn’t reach Jim’s ears. The gun is light as a feather in his hand, as if it was made of air, and he’s not surprised when he aims a few feet to the left of Seb’s head and fires. Seb’s eyes never leave Jim’s, even when the bullet passes his face. Seb doesn’t even flinch at the report of the gun. Jim’s hand is moving again, and this time he fires to the right of Seb’s head. Nothing.

 

Seb’s lack of fear or anger is tearing down Jim’s cozy little bubble of psychotic-rage. In a moment of panic at his shell being torn down, Jim points the gun directly at Seb. This shot won’t miss if Jim decides to pull the trigger.

 

“It was the dream again, wasn’t it?” Seb’s gruff voice has finally pierced the cloud layer separating Jim from the world. Jim’s hands are shaking, and the gun is getting heavy. Seb stands slowly and moves around the counter. Jim’s gun is still pointing straight ahead, at where Seb used to be, his eyes still staring along the barrel. Jim feels Seb’s large hand encompass his, gently removing his finger from its precarious sanctuary that was the trigger guard, Jim’s hands going limp as Seb moved in closer, Jim smelling his soap.

 

Jim heard Seb remove the last two bullets from their chambers, stashing them somewhere. Jim’s eyes were still fixed in front of him as he tried to maintain the last of his cocoon, reality certainly being a most uninvited guest. He feels himself get lightheaded as his protection comes crashing down, his own body crashing down to its knees on the hard tile of the floor, his small figure hunched over in defeat.

 

Warmth against his left side, a large, warm hand on his back. A quiet voice.

 

“Jim. You are the singularly most unique and amazing person I know, and ever will know. Your legacy of terror will live on for centuries, if you want it to. You are the epitome of brilliance, undermining every government in the bloody world. You own the world. You are control, you are danger. Sherlock has nothing that you haven’t got in ten-fold amounts. I was so alone and angry before I met you. I owe you so much. Just do this one last thing for me. Come back, Jim.”

 

Jim finds himself kneeling on the floor, Seb kneeling next to him. _And the King has returned._

 

“Were you afraid you’d lost me, Sebby?” He tries to sound innocent and joking , but his voice is husky and fading.

 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing immediately, Seb’s face going from concerned and sincere to his default Alert-Face. _Shit, shit, shit, shit, fucked it up, always fucking it up_. Seb stands up, walks away.

 

“What are you doing Seb? I’m…I’m sorry about the whole shooting at you bit! Come back!” He voice is rasping as loudly as it can. _Not loud enough._

“I was collecting my duffel bag. You wanted to check out Baker Street, right?” Seb’s face has a wicked grin on it. _The bastard let me think I’d actually offended him. Oh you’re good, Mr. Moran. Well played._

“You—are—such—a _cunt_!” Jim stands and moves to punch Seb’s chest, but is easily deflected.

 

“Thanks for reminding me. Looks like this afternoon won’t be free after all. That’ll be when I give you your first Self Defense lesson.” Seb laughed at the look on Jim’s face.

 

“Fine, but I need to make a call first.” Jim pulls out his phone, presses Speed-Dial 2.

 

“Darcy? Yes, it’s Jim. Yes, that Jim. You owe me. Carrie Jensen. Yes. No later than 4:30 today. Look up the address yourself, I’m in a hurry.” He turns to Seb, sighing like an old woman. “Let’s get this over with.”


	5. Sherlock

Sherlock is awake. He is sitting on the couch in their darkened flat, the better to hear John if he calls. Sitting, not lying, something he does when he’s particularly anxious. He remained in the living room, electing to respect John’s privacy, though he thought privacy to be pointless. Except for when it came to Mycroft. He found that he’d become unusually paranoid that John would expire during the night from internal bleeding that he knew wasn’t there, or maybe head trauma or some other injury? It was 3 AM, and he hadn’t had a moment of sleep. _I should remain alert, should my assistance be needed. He really isn’t in good enough condition to do things on his own. Should he wake in the night, I should be ready to provide him with whatever care he needs._

 

He checks his phone for the time, its screen illuminating the face and chest of the gaunt figure hunched over it, cheekbones set in harsh relief. They’d gotten back to Baker Street around 11 PM, and that was approximately when he’d given John his first dose of pain medication. The bottle had said every 4 hours. _At least now I have a reason to check on him._ He stood, attaining his considerable height within seconds, his eagerness to evaluate John’s health nearly making him forget to grab the bottle of pain medication and fill a mug with water. With the grace of a gazelle he leapt up the stairs, his long legs letting him skip 4 steps at a time, and he soon reached the top. His heart was beating fast, but not from his ascension. He walked on silent feet, his shoes still on from when they got home, to the door of the Army Doctor. He leaned his ear against the door. His keen hearing found nothing; no wheezing, no coughing, no death rattle. _Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss anything. Think! I assessed his injuries; I know that they are nowhere near life-threatening. Why am I worried?_

 

He put the pills in his pocket and switched the mug to his left hand; he pulled in a quiet breath before turning the handle, willing himself to be quiet. _Be still my beating heart, before you wake up my pulped flat-mate_ , he thinks to himself, knowing that John would be slightly scandalized at the misuse of so well-known a quote. He twists the handle, too concentrated on avoiding the grinding noise that this door always made when it was opened to notice how cold the metal was. It had always driven him mad to hear the door when John would open and close it, but he had never cared enough to get up to do anything about it; he wished he’d done something now. The handle has made its full revolution, and Sherlock is slowly setting weight against it, the door scraping the frame with a noise that jarred his nerves. Sherlock feels the warmer air creep out of John’s room through the inch-wide crack that he’s managed to gain in his trench-warfare with the noisiest door in all of London. _If he wasn’t awake before, he will be now_ , and with this thought he abandoned any attempt at silence, forcing the door open with his arm pressed against the wood.

 

Sherlock stood listening in the doorway, the dark and warmth of the room the only things apparent as his first sweeping gaze passed over it. He would have reached around the wall to the light switch that was there, but it hadn’t been functioning since the week before last. He didn’t hear the sounds of someone disturbed from their sleep as he’d expected… rather the atmosphere of the room got quieter. _I should know better than to creep into the pitch-black room of an ex-Army Doctor, and knowing him, he’s probably going over ways to silently dispatch an intruder without moving from his bed. I’d say he has about 7 ways, not counting the ones that involve smashing the intruder over the head with something from his nightstand_. His face had smiled without his permission at his picturing John lying in wait.

 

“John, it’s me. I’ve brought your medication, so stop creeping about in the dark. John?” Sherlock felt himself get a tickle of apprehension in his stomach. He was the prey in John’s little game.

 

“John, turn on the bloody lights. I have a mug of water that I would really prefer not to spill everywhere.” His words were just a distraction for John, but his mind was racing. _The room is perfectly silent, no creaking floorboards, no regular breathing noises, so he’s not walking about anymore, standing or crouching somewhere, but his leg is feeling dodgy and would be unable to maintain a crouching position— so, standing it is. John’s body has a distinctive aroma, one that I would be able to detect if he were within 3 feet of my current position, and since I can only smell the more muted smell of him everywhere since he sleeps here, he is most likely outside of the 3 foot range. The window in his room is on the far wall from where I stand now, and if he were standing there, despite the near total darkness I would be able to see his outline, therefore he is hidden in one of the two rectangular areas of darkness on either side of the window, the rectangles extending as far as the end of the bed, the head of which is against the wall to my left, to keep him out of my 3 foot range of olfactory detection, making the rectangles into spaces of about 3 feet by 9 feet on either side. So, a short man with a gimpy leg having only about 5 seconds between me attempting to open the door quietly and pushing it all the way open leaves him with a limited range of space to cross without making noise, in the dark. He wouldn’t be under the bed, as that space is already taken by his luggage. If he was in the closet on the wall to my right, he would have brushed up against the bottoms of his shirts, making the hangers rattle, or at the very least he would have bumped into his shoe rack. So…standing out in the center of one of the rectangular black-zones…_

He is only 3 seconds into his internal monologue when he feels a tap on his shoulder. A tap on the shoulder that comes from behind. From out in the hallway. He spins quickly, nearly spilling the water that’d he’d forgotten all about. _This makes no sense, how the hell—_

 

“What the he—,” he begins, but is cut off by John’s sudden laughter. He still can’t see the man but he feels John move past him into his room, clicking on the lamp that sits on the nightstand. John’s bruised face is grinning.

 

“Bet I stumped you with that one,” John’s triumphant tone is quite deserved.

 

“Consider me stumped. How’d you manage that? I didn’t hear the door open, or your floor creak.”

 

“Well, I’ve been awake for the past half-hour or so, and I’d figured that you’d be asleep, so I didn’t bother to go down to watch telly. I was just lying here, when I saw a light coming from under the door, really faint. I knew it was your phone, since I’ve seen it plenty of times in the middle of the night, you’re usually pacing in the dark, but you weren’t tonight, which is why I’d assumed you were asleep. I checked my phone, saw the time, and guessed it would be time for my next dose. You confirmed that by turning on the faucet downstairs, and the pipe runs right through the wall near my bed, and it whines when you turn it on and off. I decided to have a bit of fun and I slipped out the door. The frame didn’t scrape because I was leaning away from the handle towards the hinges, and the floor didn’t creak because I made a point of memorizing the stable boards that one time that we had a burglar creep in 3 months ago. AND you forgot that I showered using your soap, so that whole bit that you explained to me one time about memorizing people’s smells to help find them was completely worthless in this situation.”

 

“I never would have guessed you to be so devious, John.” Sherlock can almost feel the pride in his voice, pride that John could trick him. Everything and everyone was obvious to Sherlock, almost from the moment he set eyes on them. The monotony of the common people chaffed against his inner anti-stagnancy campaign. John, on the other hand, was complicated. He was resourceful. He was not part of the boring masses that milled about London. Sherlock thinks himself lucky to know Mike Stamford in these moments. Without Mike, Sherlock would never have met John. John, a man of jumpers, kindness, and deadly precision. His adaptability has allowed him to endure through Sherlock’s rather invasive personality, often ending with John encouraging him to deduce things about him, prompting a more than willing response. He’d chosen a better flat-mate than he’d ever imagined or hoped for.

 

“Yeah, well, there are a lot of things about me that people would never guess about. Like being an adrenaline junky that runs around with a mad detective. And there is something that I don’t think you’ve guessed about either; I kind of liked the feeling of having Moriarty’s bombs strapped to me, disturbing as it might have been.” John raises his eyebrows and gives Sherlock the “oh well” grimace that Sherlock is so familiar with. Sherlock is only mildly shocked by this confession. He recalls John with the vest of explosives strapped to his torso. He remembers that John’s breathing was rather labored; his chest heaving with what Sherlock had assumed was anger and fear. He’d misjudged.

 

“Ah, so all of the heavy breathing and your flushed face was from arousal? I’d say that’s more than just being an adrenaline junky, John. Sounds more like a case of Autassassinophilia, feeling arousal at the thought of your life being at risk. A danger fetish.” John’s face blushed, and Sherlock laughed.

 

“Laugh all you want, but I’m beginning to think it’s going to turn into a problem. You remember what I did to Moran? I think that might have been a side-effect of my addiction—,” Sherlock had opened his mouth, as though to dispute, “Yes, it’s an addiction, Sherlock. We both know all about addiction. When I…bit…Moran I think that was me acting on whatever feeling that the thrill of fighting him had induced in me. I can usually keep it under control, but it looks like it’s making itself known now. I’m going to assume that this is a by-product of my time in Afghanistan, how whatever joy or pleasure was available was had in the wake of danger. That type of Pavlovian Association can happen. It wasn’t quite like this for me during the war, since it was out of necessity that I felt the adrenaline, running through enemy territory, but… I don’t know. Things are different now.”

 

Sherlock is bemused by John’s self-diagnosis. _I see nothing wrong with this._

 

“Does this actually present a problem? Is it affecting your everyday reactions with society? I thought not. It only serves to remind you of how boring life is without me,” says Sherlock, face set in a smug grin. His voice had tripped lightly over the last few words, his eyes dancing with mischief.

 

“Don’t think I don’t know that. I get reminded every day when I get a taxi, seeing everyone going about their business. Calm. I have to admit, it’s infuriating sometimes to see how ignorant everyone is about all of the things going on right under their noses. I can’t blame them though. No one should ever really want to stare face to face with all the bad things that creep around in the dark. Human or otherwise. We’re just bonkers enough to seek them all out.” John looks at Sherlock with a tired smile on his lips.

 

“Enough chin wagging. Hand me the pills, and what’s left of the water that you haven’t sloshed out of the cup.  Ghosting around is harder than it looks when you’ve been smashed about.”

 

“I’m taking you to the clinic to get looked over later this morning. Sarah should be willing to give you the check up.” Sherlock is stalking about the room, and he feels John’s eyes following his progress.

 

“Sherlock—I don’t think that Sarah should get involved in this. Even just by treating me, we’re putting her at risk.”

 

“John. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up at 9, and then we’ll head over. Your lip. How is it doing?”

 

“It’s going to need stitches. It’s smarting like a mother, but it should heal nicely once the skin mends.”

 

Sherlock stands still, his long fingers drumming against his thighs, a thoughtful scowl settling on his brow. _Captures me, keeps me alive. That makes no sense…Why wouldn’t Jim just kill me and dump my body? I’m the only thing that stands between him and getting away with everything scot-free. I’m the only speed-bump in his perfect organization. He’s really dragging this out. Making it last…oh…_

Sherlock snaps his head up. John is looking at him curiously, but has learned better than to question Sherlock when he’s in one of his Fits of Deduction.  Sherlock thoughts consume him once more, his eyes staring with piercing clarity, yet not seeing what is in front of him. _He wants this to continue. He wants our little game to continue. The Pool was just the beginning of our truly twisted relationship. Watching me dance. I asked him why, and he said he was bored. Bored. Oh Jim, no one knows better than I what it is to be bored. I can sympathize like no other, and that’s why you’ve let me live. We can make life so much more interesting for each other. Slowly tearing each other apart._

 

Sherlock comes back from his thoughts, and looks at John with something indescribable in his eyes. Jim will use anything to get to Sherlock. _Anything, John. He will use you. He DID use you. He kidnapped you, strapped bombs to your chest. Things just got more interesting though. Now he’s using me to get to you to get to me. He knows you’re loyal. He knows you’d do anything for me. Getting yourself killed for me would kill me. I’m making no sense. This must be the sleep deprivation…_

 

“Sherlock…what’s wrong?” John’s voice is tentative, yet his confidential tone is trying to tempt Sherlock into confessing his realization.

 

“Nothing John. I’m going to head downstairs. Get a little sleep. I’m setting my alarm for 8, and we’ll leave the house by 9. Get some rest.” His voice is distracted, his eyes tracing the grain of the floorboards. 

 

He leaves John’s room, finding himself lying on top of his sheets, not caring that he doesn’t remember walking into his bedroom. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, his spidery fingers tangling in his curls. He feels something he’s never experienced before. _What IS this?_ The corners of his eyes sting, and he pushes his palms against his eyes, seeing the little bursts of light play across his eyelids. _John would know what this is…but I can’t tell John. John shouldn’t have to worry about anything. Perhaps Mycroft—NO! I can’t consult_ Mycroft _on_ feelings _. What would he know?_

 

He feels a sickness in the pit of his stomach as he fishes his mobile out of his pocket. His hands are tense as he pulls up Mycroft’s name in his contacts list.

 

**_Need your assistance. I am experiencing_ **

**_a rather disconcerting emotion that_ **

**_I can’t identify._ **

**_-SH_ **

****

He waits a moment, setting his mobile on his chest as he stares at the ceiling. Seconds later it sends a heavy vibration through his chest as Mycroft’s response is received.

 

**_Am I really the best choice for_ **

**_this “consultation”? Would not John be more_ **

**_appropriate? I am too tired to continue texting._ **

**_Call my work number._ **

**_-MH_ **

 

Sherlock sighs, a long, tired gust of air. He quickly selects Mycroft’s other number and waits with a beating heart for him to pick up.

 

“Sherlock,” comes the dusky voice through the phone, “What could possibly be beyond the emotional expertise of your live-in Doctor?”

 

Sherlock grits his teeth. This is not a conversation he wishes to have at 3 AM, or any other time for that matter.

 

“I can’t talk to John about this. It involves him.”

 

“Ah, so we’ve finally reached the stage where you’ve realized your attraction to him?”

 

“Wha— no! That’s not— Just shut up and let me speak… Mycroft, John is in danger. Or he will be quite soon. Moriarty is…courting me… inviting me to battle. He’s bored with the world, bored with having everything he wants. He feels he’s defeated everything worth conquering.”

 

“But then he discovered you. Ah. You are, aside from myself, the ultimate distraction for a man of his caliber. This is a very grave matter indeed. Does John know any of this?”

 

“Not the full extent of it. John can handle danger. He’s the most fearless man I know, but I can’t possibly let him anywhere near the blast radius that surrounds me and Jim. I…feel…I don’t know! Mycroft, help me!”

 

“I would never have dared to imagine that I would hear those words from you. I will assist as best I can, but I am honestly quite sure that you are coming to the wrong person. Try and describe your—for lack of a better word— _symptoms_ for me.”

 

“My heart is racing, I’m sick to my stomach, my eyes are stinging, my muscles are tense. I feel my hands shaking. These symptoms all started about 10 minutes ago, when I realized how things would play out... When I looked at John after that…I—I j-just...” Sherlock’s voice had acquired a tremor that had grown into a full blown stutter by the time he finished his sentence.

 

“Sherlock, we are about to engage in some calming respiratory techniques. Breathe in slowly through your nose for a count of 5 seconds…”

 

Sherlock’s face is scrunched with the ridiculousness of this act, but he does it none the less, feeling himself get slightly lightheaded as the air forces its way into his tight chest.

 

“Now breathe out through your mouth for a count of 5 seconds. We’re going to repeat this 2 more times. Breathe in…..and out….in….and out. Do you feel slightly better than before? Anthea swears by this technique.”

 

Remarkably, Sherlock feels a bit better. His system is flooded with oxygen, and his breathing is slowing.

 

“Sherlock, I believe I have a diagnosis. What you just went through appears to be a panic attack brought on by the thought of your only friend being brought into harm’s way. It is…a completely reasonable response, from what I’m reading from Wikipedia…”

 

“Mycroft…you went to _Wikipedia_ to diagnose me? I don’t know if I should be livid or flattered that you would stoop so low as to reference the _internet._ ” Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, huffing out a tired breath. He is now totally exhausted. _Well, this call, as uncomfortable as it was, appears to have helped…_

 

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“You heard me. _Thanks_.” He loads the last word with as much sarcasm and malice as he can.

 

“I look forward to using this against you in the future. Good morning, Sherlock.” The dial tone rings in Sherlock’s ear.

 

His fingertip stabs the red phone icon, ending the call as he smirks into the dark. _Of course you do, Mycroft._ He turns to his alarm, snatches it from the nightstand, and sets the alarm for 8 AM, without moving from his position on the bed. He watches the minutes tick by, feeling himself slip into sleep…

 

“ _Sherlock!_ **SHERLOCK**! **_SHERLO_** — ,“ the voice is cut off, but Sherlock can hear the sounds of muffled screaming. His eyes are dancing frantically across a scene that makes no sense. John is in the air, suspended by dark tendrils of… _something_. He struggles, kicks, his mouth is gagged by a tie, and expensive tie.

 

“John! JOHN!” Sherlock’s body is moving slow, as if he is trying to run through water, his legs heavy, nearly unresponsive. He feels himself trip, fall, the ground covered in a bloody sludge. From where he is on the ground, he looks up, John’s body flailing against a reddened sky.

 

The tendrils tighten, squeeze around John’s limbs and torso, and Sherlock hears a crunching sound, nearly drowned out by the cry of the man himself, the voice attaining such a pitch that Sherlock’s ears ring with it, the madness of pain gargling and petering off as the bones of the ribcage pierced John’s lungs, blood erupting around the tie, dripping, down, down, down.

 

The blood is cold by the time it reaches Sherlock, so high up is the body of his friend. He watches its descent from the end of the tie, all the way to the moment when it hits his cheek, running down his face, making mocking red tear-tracks. Sherlock quivers and gasps on the ground, feeling the squelch of the substance that covers it as he feels himself lose all control of his body, keeling over. The moment his head touches the ground, the blood seeping into his curls, he hears a laugh. THAT laugh. That maniacal, tinkling, musical laugh.

 

“You didn’t think I’d let him keep you from me, did you, my dear?” Sherlock sees a leather shoe step into view from where his head rests in the sludge, his heart barely beating for its horror and sorrow. The shoe digs itself into his shoulder, rolling him onto his back, stripping away what little protection being curled up had given. John is hanging, limp and crushed right over his face, blotting out everything. He curls in on himself again, his own sobbing sounding distant.

 

“It was always meant to be you and me, Sherlock.” The voice echoes into oblivion but it’s presence it etched into Sherlock’s mind, leaving him vomiting, the hot fluids of his stomach pooling around his face…

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock! Wake up! You’re bloody alarm has been going off for the past 5 minutes, and then I walk in here and you’re tossing around on your bed! Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock’s body jolts up, and his breath is coming in desperate heaves. His eyes are wild, scrabbling for focus on the things in front of him. He finds his hand clenching John’s jumper, his grip so tight that his knuckles are jutting like pale vertebrae. His entire body is rigid, the quaking of his limbs leaving his mind awash with dizziness.

 

“John…” His voice isn’t audible, the air leaving his mouth without any sound carried on it.

 

“Sherlock, God, what’s wrong? Sherlock, look at me, Jesus! You need to look at me! Focus on my eyes. Breathe in through your nose 1,2,3,4,5….now out through your mouth 1,2,3,4,5.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes latch onto John’s, their deep blue calming him, as he tried to comply with John’s instructions. Reality falls back into place, smothering the horror.

 

“John!” This time his voice is loud, his tone panicked.

 

“Sherlock, I’m here. Sherlock, breathe in…..out….in….out. Come here.” John sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, pulling his lanky form close. Sherlock’s arms wrap around John’s torso, clenching the back of his jumper. _His bones aren’t broken, he’s not broken, he’s here, he’s not broken…_ He buries his face into John’s shoulder, ignoring the liquid that has escaped his tear ducts against his will, hoping that it’ll be absorbed by the scratchy wool before John notices.

 

“Are you sure it’s me that needs to get checked out? What’s all this about Sherlock? Eh? Come on, tell me. Something’s scared you shitless, and I figure that it’d be better if I knew so that I could help you fight it.”

 

The irony of those words coming out of John’s mouth after Sherlock telling himself that he wouldn’t involve John in his Battle Royale forced a short, bitter, watery laugh from Sherlock.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper. _That is perhaps the greatest lie I have ever told_. He breaks the hug, shifting himself so that he’s sitting next to John, his legs stretched out on the floor in front of him. His shoulder brushes John’s; the Army Doctor’s left shoulder. _His bad shoulder._

 

“I’m going to take a shower. You, uh, might want to start getting ready.” Sherlock stands, ignoring the jelly-like feeling in his legs. He leaves John in his room, making his way to his bathroom, purposefully ignoring the look of confusion on John’s face.

 

The heat and steam do little to soothe the sense of impending doom that looms over Sherlock’s mind. He stands, one leg bent, the other straight, his arms straight out in front of him, hands against the tile as he leans, letting the hot water drum against his back. The tempo of the water seemed to match the syllables of the last words that he heard in his dream. _It was always meant to be you and me….I’m going insane. Water droplets are water droplets, nothing more._ He turns off the water, letting himself drip-dry. The air is thick with vapor and he finds that breathing is difficult, the density of it making him think of his earlier panic. _I clung to him like a child._ He shakes his arms, hearing the hundreds of patters as the water hit the plastic shower curtain. _Oh God, his blood hitting my face…_

 

He steps out onto the bathmat. _I am a tainted, nothing I do makes a difference…_

 

He sees his face in the mirror, all the angles and dips, and feels nothing but scorn, his pale skin, dark curls and verdigris eyes a caricature of angelic grace. _Look at you. Pompous, arrogant. Look what your arrogance has gotten you, a date with destiny and the guaranteed death of your only friend._

He walks out of the bathroom, ignoring the sounds of John making breakfast in the kitchen, determined to feel nothing but the chill of the air. He reaches his room, closing the door behind him, the silence with which he does it speaking of finality.

 

Grabbing an old towel from the floor, he dries himself the rest of the way, leaving his curls damp where they swirled artfully across his forehead. He pulls on clean undergarments and black slacks with long dark socks. Without thinking, he reaches into his closet, grabbing out a random shirt. _Red. Why red? Why?_ He pulls the shirt on, forcing himself to keep his composure _. I deserve to suffer through this for what I’ve started._ His coat is out on the couch. He rests his head against the door frame. _You are composure. You are steely reserve._

 

“Get out there, you freakish prat,” he whispers to himself, “Every _second_ you delay is another moment that John suffers.”

 

He pulls open the door, stepping into the living room. He sees John poke his head around the corner. _John. John. John. I’m such a fool._

“You want any toast? There’s a couple of slices left, and some coffee,” John’s voice is steady and normal _. He’s eager to prove that he doesn’t think differently of me. You deserve better_.

 

“No, I’m not hungry. If you’ve finished, I’ll get my coat and we’ll leave.”

 

John shifts about the kitchen a bit more, and all the while Sherlock stares, cataloging everything about him. John exits the kitchen looking clean and lively despite his bruised face and puffy lip.

 

“Ready?” Sherlock’s voice is low and gravelly, and John picks up on the difference immediately.

 

“Yeah. Sherlock…really…what’s the matter?” John’s eyes beg for an explanation.

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock mutters heading down the stairs, John following close behind. He opens the door and steps down the stairs, hearing John close the door behind him.

 

“Taxi!” Sherlock’s arm is extended upwards, hailing a cab within seconds of reaching the edge of the street. John stands, the toes of his shoes jutting off the curb, making Sherlock momentarily nauseas.

 

With a heavy heart and a sense of dread, Sherlock gets in the taxi, sitting all the way on the left, watching John as he clambers in. Sherlock stares at 221 B as they pull into the street, watching it shrink as the distance between them grew. 


	6. Seb

Sebastian looks to his left, staring at the little man in the passenger seat, who seems for all the world like a bored Uni student in his jeans and jacket. _Odd to think that it was only 15 minutes ago that he was going to shoot me between the eyes. How is it that he doesn’t have a single bruise on him from last night? Meanwhile here I am, looking like a train wreck, and fuck, I feel like one too_. Jim feels Seb’s eyes on him and turns, a pout on his face that would put any toddler to shame. Jim raises a thin eyebrow.

 

“Sebastian, if you’re going to eyefuck me, at least be a little more discreet.” His tone was casual, which was dangerous. Unlike some who get tense before a job, Jim gets relaxed, confident.

 

“Why bother to be discreet, Love?” Seb reaches over and pinches Jim’s cheek, just asking for trouble. He feels his ribs light up with pain, but this is worth it. “You’re just TOO DAMNED ADORABLE!”

 

Jim swats away Seb’s hand, staring at him with murder in his eyes.

 

“You are aware that I’m not above killing you, right Seb?” His tone is flat and low.

 

“Of course, Boss. Though, I’m not above killing you either. I doubt you’d be able to get to your knife before I snapped your neck.” He answers with his eyes on the road, flashing a quick glance at Jim.

 

Jim’s face smirks. _Ah, there’s the humor. The little fuck nearly shoots me, and he’s the one having a sulk. All over a dream._

 

Without his permission, Seb’s thoughts flash to the first time that The Dream had made its hateful appearance into their lives.

 

Seb recalls waking up sometime the week before to find Jim shouting in his room; something about “ _ancient_ fucking _computers_ ” and “fucking _CUBICLES_ ”. Seb had heard something raw and reckless in Jim’s voice. He’d scrambled off the couch, burst through Jim’s double doors, to find him standing on his bed, trying to tie a noose with his bed curtains. Without a second thought, Seb lunged forward, swept Jim’s legs out from under him and held him down until the little man stopped raving about “the horrors of normalcy”. Jim’s body was shaking and his frantic struggling nearly caused Seb to lose his grip, his face was covered in a sheen of sweat and tears as he struggled against the sniper’s heavier frame.

 

“Christ, Jim! Calm the fuck down! You’re okay!” Seb’s muscles burned with the effort of restraining him; Jim’s terror made him strong and unpredictable, no longer recognizing friend from foe. Seb felt a crawling sensation that made his jaw clench, a sensation that made him want to recoil in the face of this scene, looking down into the frightened eyes of someone who was usually so morbidly jovial. He held Jim down for what felt like an eternity, the smaller man’s body going completely still, worryingly so. There was a solid, interminable silence. Without prompting, Jim spoke in a quiet voice, his eyes no longer shifting behind their lids.

 

“Was normal…was boring…was stupid and pathetic,” his voice getting higher as he sucked in a breath, his voice quavering on the edge of a sob. Seb just continued to stare, feeling sick with pity at the sight before him. _I’ve never seen Jim like this, oh God, what if this becomes a thing? Jesus, do I hold him? Do I leave him alone? NO. He was trying to hang himself when I ran in. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. No one writes self-help books for people dealing with manic-depressive Crime Lords, now do they?_

 

“He was there!” Jim’s voice hissed with suppressed weeping, the grief and fear convulsing their ways through his body.

 

Sebastian tried to find the words to bring Jim back to being…normal (A relative term)? _I’m so out of my motherfucking depth. Give me battle, give me an impossible heist and I can whip something up, but what in the fucking fuck do I say now?_

“Who was there, Jim?” He sighs to himself. That’s _the best I could come up with? Bloody hell…_

“Him, Seb! Him! Oh fucking shit, he was there! Whispering things.” His voice is still a gasping whisper, and Jim’s face is contorted with rage and panic as tears begin to fall again. Seb still has Jim’s arms trapped, but he can feel Jim gesticulating with violence. “He was there, whispering…wasn’t good enough to play my own games…,” Jim’s face twisted. Seb could see him struggling to get a handle on himself. Seb’s eyes began to prickle as he stared down at his Crime Lord, looking so broken and wild, his own heart wrenched with a cruel sympathetic agony.

 

_You weren’t the one I expected to see like this…never would have thought you’d be the damaged one, waking up screaming. Me, maybe. Never you, you’re too strong for that…The man with the world in the palm of his hand…_

 

Seb swallowed the clawing helplessness and despair that were forming a solid lump in his throat, breathing out slowly. _Pull your shit together; you’ve got Jim to deal with._ He eased up the pressure that he had on Jim, finally allowing himself to sit back, no longer touching him. Jim’s breathing was slowing but Seb could still hear the whine of his pain escaping from his mouth, as his dread radiated from his tiny body, battering Seb with crushing waves of fear. He tried to ignore his own smothering helplessness which had settled over his entire body, feeling like an unbearable weight.

 

_I’ve known Jim for just under 5 years; lived with him for just under 3. I’ve talked him out of destroying nations, burning them to the ground. I’ve convinced him to spare useful agents when they’d made minor mistakes. I’ve brought him out of his reckless phases, where he’d run straight into an ambush on purpose if I let him. He’s had bad days, days where his plots have failed due to weak agents who’d broken under the pressure of his enemies, throwing him into deadly tantrums, but he’s never been this broken, this low. Nothing close to this. He seemed so invincible, so in control in then. Now he’s a shuddering mess that just tried to off himself with a curtain. You asshole, trying to leave me here by myself. I can’t run your empire. I spent 2 years alone after getting kicked out of the Military before you came along, and they were the worst years of my life. I never wanted anything but the necessities, but look what I’ve been given…free-reign over London, and tiny Psycho to share it with…YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE ME ALONE, ALONE WITH THIS SHIT._

 

“Jim? Do you remember when we first met? You crazy bastard. You promised me that if I came to work for you I wouldn’t be disappointed. I wouldn’t feel bored. You were right. Running all over the world with you…it’s the best thing that’s happened to me. Ever. Period. No question…but if you don’t get some sense back in your sodding head, I’m going to have to walk away. From this. From you. And I’m taking the suit with me. Don’t disappoint me Jim.” Inside that threat was Seb’s prayer. His prayer to anyone, anything. _Please, just come back Jim, this isn’t you. This isn’t what I signed up for._ He put his head in his hands, his fear peaking. _Jesus, what if I come back one day and he’s dead?_ He forced down the panic and vomit that he felt

 

“You sentimental wanker, you still have the suit?” The voice was steady and mocking. Jim was looking at Seb, whose eyes were blessedly dry. It wouldn’t do to weep in front of him. _How the hell does he do that? Just put all of the pain away?_

 

“Fuck off,” Seb’s words were uttered in a soft voice, a voice that was nearly tender as he looked down at Jim, whose snarky personality seemed to be filtering its way back. Jim’s eyes had their baleful light again, something that Seb had long ago learned to ignore. _It’s his natural expression. His armor against the world. I’ve seen you without it a few times before. You’ve let me in…only me._

 

Seb could see red marks on Jim’s forearms from where he’d grabbed him, feeling regretful that it’d been necessary to leave them. The tears on Jim’s face still glistened.

 

“Are you feeling more yourself, or do I need to pin you again? My arms are sore from lugging around your bags yesterday, so I’d really appreciate it if you would return to your semi-sane state.” Seb tried to feel the humor that his words gave off, but he was still cold inside. The cold was mixing with an angry heat in the pit of his stomach, making him feel nauseas just trying to smile.

 

“Fuck off. Thanks for the bruises, you brute. The entire office is going to assume that you’re abusing me. I’m the battered wife here, darling. I could press charges.” Jim rolled himself into a sitting position, pulling down his shirt from where it had bunched under his arms from his struggling. He got off the bed, still looking a little wan, and went to the shower, leaving Seb staring after him. _Keep it together…._

 

When Seb finally heard the water turn on, and the shower door close, his hand flew up to his mouth to muffle a sob that had been waiting to burst out. He’d come so close to being alone again. He couldn’t handle it. His tears seemed to race down his cheeks, over his fingers, leaving little dark circles on Jim’s green sheets. His chest felt tight as he tensed his entire body, trying to regain some semblance of stability. _I can’t, not again, not alone, how could he, how dare he, he gave me this and then tries to abandon me, I’ll kill the little fucker before I let that happen, oh God, get a grip, you can do this, calm yourself, you idiot, breaking down does nothing, you know what you need to do, keep an eye on him._ He was gasping from between his fingers which were still clamped over his mouth, squeezing so hard that he was sure that he had strained something in his hand. His vision was blurred as he stared around Jim’s room, trying to find something to latch onto, to make it through his inner storm. He was being buffeted by thoughts of preparing Jim’s funeral, running away from what would be left of Jim’s empire, hiding himself somewhere isolated, and dying alone. _JUST FUCKING STOP._ He was being stern with himself now, and it seemed to be working. He controlled his breathing, letting his hands drop down, though they continued to shake in his lap.

 

He walked to the archway that lead into the bathroom, realizing how stupid it would be to save Jim from killing himself, only giving him another chance to do it in the shower. He let himself slide down, sitting with his back to the inner edge of the arch, watching the vaguely flesh-colored shape move around behind the foggy glass. _I need to keep you safe. From yourself, but FOR me. Seems quite selfish, but being selfish was always something that you could understand._ He’d wiped away his tears, feeling his face return to its normal, non-blotchy-with-crying state. He looked around, noticing there wasn’t a towel in the bathroom, and stood up, slipping out Jim’s doors quietly, feeling the cooler air of the rest of the flat. Having grabbed a towel he returned, finding Jim just opening the door. He tossed the towel through the moist air, across the 10 feet of tile in between them, leaning himself against the arch. Jim caught the towel, his eyebrows and hair looking especially dark while wet, and gave Seb a look of mild confusion.

 

“Seb darling,” his tone was slow and patient, “as flattered as I am that you were watching me shower, we have business today, just like every other day.” He was toweling himself dry as he said these words, not bothering to try and shield himself from Seb. Seb had seen Jim naked numerous times before, and in various states of fucked-up-ness from torture, drugs, wild escapes through dense jungle. He’d never considered it to be something sexual. He still didn’t.

 

“How else am I supposed to get my kicks?” He walked up to Jim, took the towel from his hands, and tossed it into the hamper that Jim never bothered to use. Seb ignored the scene of 10 minutes ago. As did Jim. Neither spoke of it. The day continued on as planned, Jim acting as he normally did. _Emphasis on acting…_

 

“Sebastian I’ve been talking at you for the past 10 minutes. Get your bloody head out of the clouds. You know I don’t like it when you get all thoughtful. We’re almost to Baker Street.” Seb breathed in quickly, feeling himself return to the present, and looked over at Jim. Jim’s face looked slightly annoyed, but the scowl was directed at his phone as he thumbed out a text and sent it to whomever was taking care of what would be Jim’s usual business for the day.

 

“What exactly are we going to be doing once we get there? Please don’t say arson. I’m so tired of arson right now, you’ve got no idea.” Seb’s breath hitched, and he grimaced in pain, pulled out his bottle of painkillers, and popped one into his mouth. The bottle was unmarked, and he had no idea what they were (Jim had tossed him the bottle right before they’d left, telling him to take 1 every half-hour or so), but damn did they work if he was feeling up to pulling a job after getting nearly all his ribs fractured. _I need to see a doctor. There’s no way that I should be up and walking right now, let alone preparing a break-in._

 

“Nothing like that. We’ll just pop in.” Seb rolled his eyes. _Jim the Ever Vague_. He turned onto Baker Street, eyeing the numbers on the doors, pulling over directly in front of the steps up to 221B. He sighed. _Here we go._ He switched off the ignition, opened his door and stepped out onto the curb, closed the door and waited for Jim to round the car. Seb started up the steps, Jim right beside him as he paused at the front door, removed his lock picks, and gave the impression to any onlookers that he was looking for the right key on a key ring _. Sometimes this is too easy_ , he thought to himself as the lock clicked and he watched the door swing open when Jim turned the handle. They stepped inside, the people outside none the wiser.

 

Seb heard Jim go up the inner stairs without him as he closed the door. He turned and watched the way that Jim prowled up to the door, his movements characterized with his steady confidence and determination, not even flinching when the stairs creaked into the thick silence. Seb was still settled against the door, watching, when Jim turned to him, and impatient look on his face that made Seb smile as he lazily skipped every other step with his long legs to reach Jim’s side.

 

“Shove over.” Jim mutters under his breath about blunt force trauma, but shifts all the same, allowing Seb to kneel down in front of the lock. _At least they had the sense to have a lock with more tumblers for this door, even if it’s still dead easy._ He opens the door from where he kneels, pulling himself up on the door frame.

 

“After you,” Seb gushes, bowing Jim into the room, a mockingly ingratiating smirk on his face.

 

Jim strolls into the room, completely ignoring Seb, his face set with a look of tender curiosity. Seb sits himself on the couch, gingerly laying back so as to not hurt his ribs, his eyes following Jim the entire time. The flat smells loved and cozy, like aging furniture and books, with an underlying scent of chemicals creeping from the kitchen table. _Nice place, if a little beat up. The bullet holes weren’t there last time. No doubt the old landlady had a fit over them._ Seb’s attention is drawn to Jim, who stands in front of the mantel, holding a skull in between his knees while he takes a single cigarette out of a rumpled cigarette packet, then puts it back into it upside down.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Messing with the balance of the universe,” Jim murmured, dragging out the S in universe as he quickly put the pack of cigarettes back on the mantel, setting the skull back on top of them, making a slight adjustment to the way that the skull faced the room. “This’ll drive Sherlock up the wall.”

 

“If you say so. I’ll just sit here then, shall I? You seem like you have everything under control.” Seb relaxes a little.

 

“Of course I say so. This is my personal message to him. ‘Nowhere is safe and nothing is sacred’. Don’t worry. I have something for you to do as well. Something that will make the message loooud and cleeeeaar!” His voice was warbling again, sending a thrill of apprehension up Seb’s spine.

 

_Bloody hell, can’t wait to hear what in the fuck that means. After this, I’m taking a vacation. I’m so sick of this entire freaking charade with Holmes and John…_

 

He sighed, stood up, and walked up behind his tiny maniac, touching him lightly on the shoulder. _He’s so tense…_

 

“What do you need me to do?”

 

“Go to Doctor Watson’s room. When you get there, I want you to destroy everything. Shhhatter…everything.” Jim’s eyes had gone dark, darker than normal. Seb’s stomach clenched as he turned to walk upstairs. He turned at the halfway-point, looking back into the living room where Jim was standing silent and unmoving. _This means war…I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end of this._

 

Seb pulls open the creaking door, looking around at the mundane items of habitation that littered the place. _Smells pleasant_. He decides to go for the clothes first, leaving the loud crashing and banging of the other items until later, giving them more time before people came running to investigate. Sliding open the closet door, he reaches a hand in, grabs a fist full of clothing and pulls it out of the closet, hangers and all. He grasps each of the shirts, woolly jumpers, and vests, at the neck, tearing them right down the middle, and then throws them into a pile on the floor. _Someone’s going to need a new wardrobe. Sorry mate._

 

There are no sounds coming from downstairs. _Ominous…_ He decides to ignore it, bothering to bend and twist all the hangers before moving on to ripping up the blanket and sheet of John’s bed. The piles of rent cloth make a rather hideous sight when Seb looks at them, feeling himself blush with shame. _Why is this bothering me? I’ve done things like this plenty of times before._

 

Wonton destruction never really suited Seb. It rather took away from the art form. Purposeful destruction, on the other hand, was beautiful. Leaving everything untouched but for the significant item automatically draws the eye, making it easier to piece out who was responsible. He’d had to forego Purposeful Destruction 9 times out of 10 with Jim, but for the times when it was deemed necessary, he sent Seb in alone. Seb could work magic, leaving behind him something that would make the target quiver with the inevitability of their demise. _But this, this is just low and cruel._

 

He ignores the pillows, deciding instead to fetch his sledge-hammer from the boot of their car. He stomps down the steps, letting Jim know where he is without disturbing whatever process he was in the middle of, walks through the door, and down the inner steps to the door leading to the street. It’s just past 1 in the afternoon, the sun hidden behind a thin layer of pearly clouds. He jumps down, completely bypassing the cement steps, landing on the sidewalk next to the car. _There are too many fucking steps in this place…fucking hell._

 

He unlocks the boot, reaches in, unzips his old green duffel bag, removing a rather intimidating sledge hammer, and then slams it shut, locking the car before he trots up the stairs again. He curses each and every step that he touches, their impact making his ribs ache. _Fuck YOU, and Fuck YOU, and Fuck YOU…_ Once he’s inside the flat, he closes the door behind him, locking it. He’s nearly to the foot of the stairs that lead to John’s room when Jim calls to him through the wood of Sherlock’s door, his voice muffled.

 

Seb steps close to the door, grips the handle tightly in his right hand, and his hammer in his left, twisting the handle. The door opens without a sound, the room beyond it dark, the crooked rectangle of light from the living room barely illuminating anything. Jim stands in the center of the room, his feet the only thing visible just inside the top corner of the faint light, the rest of his body in shadow.

 

“Jim?”

 

“Come here Seb. I’ve got something to show you.” The voice is light and triumphant, doing nothing to ease Seb’s mind. He can tell that Jim has a big grin on his face, despite the darkness. Seb comes to a halt at Jim’s side, Jim’s shoulder brushing against his arm. There’s a moment when nothing happens, and Seb turns to stare down at Jim, then a bright bluish-purple light floods out of a flashlight in Jim’s hands. _What’s he doing with a black-light?_ Seb’s eyes follow the beam. _Oh my fucking God. That’s…_ The singular most horrifying thing Seb’s ever seen is emblazoned across the wall of Sherlock’s bedroom.

 

“I know, Seb. I know. Petroleum jelly is an underrated medium.” Seb is startled out of his thoughts, Jim looking at him in the bluish light with something odd in his eyes, his wide smile glowing with the same white-blue luminescence as the monstrosity on the wall.

 

“What—?” Seb is disgusted and mesmerized at the same time. _What…_

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

 

“Jesus, Jim! What in the fuck—I think I’m going to be sick!” Seb hurried out of the room, leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs, trying to breathe deeply without vomiting. Jim followed him out moments later, twisting the cap back on a tube of Vaseline.

 

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” says Jim, tossing the black-light onto Sherlock’s bed, “Finish up with the Doctor Watson’s room and we’ll go have lunch somewhere. Art makes me hungry.” He clattered down the stairs, leaving Seb’s mind dazed, traces of the glowing image on the wall still burned into his eyes.

 

He let out a shuddering breath, loosened his death-grip on his sledge hammer, and made his way upstairs. 


	7. John

John watched Sherlock as the cab took them to the clinic, his eyes narrowed, a small scowl on his face as he puzzles over the silence of his companion. _What’s_ _wrong Sherlock? You’re never this…well—like this! You’ve been odd since last night, and more so since this morning with the dream._ Sherlock had been staring out the window on his side of the cab, keeping his angular face turned from John at all times, his coat collar at its fullest upward flare _. Don’t be like this with me._

 

John’s text alert goes off, his phone vibrating in his right pocket. He looks at Sherlock one more time before fishing his mobile out of his jeans.

 

**Hey John, I was wondering if you**

**wanted to come over to my place round 2**

**for some football and lager.**

**Some of the Yarders are going, including**

**Donovan and And**

**-GL**

 

John smiled as he waited for the second half of Greg’s message to register on his phone. Moments later, the rest appeared.

 

**erson. Bring him along. He could**

**make a case-study of it, or something**

**like that. You guys could use some**

**downtime.**

**-GL**

 

 _Sherlock? Watching football?_ The thought nearly made him laugh. John nearly forgot that he was in a crap mood at the prospect of Sherlock dissecting the game, much to everyone else’s annoyance. _God, anything to break this silence._

 

**Let me see if I can convince**

**him to come along. No lager for**

**me, unfortunately. Getting stitches**

**for my lip, and the alcohol won’t mix**

**well with the pain meds.**

**-JW**

 

John sent off the text, looking over at Sherlock again. _I’ve still got about 5 hours to convince him to come with me. Could be fun for us both._

 

“Sherlock.” John watches as his voice appears to filter through the fine mesh of Sherlock’s hair, reaching his ears in a slightly delayed fashion.

 

“Hmm. Yes, John?” Sherlock’s voice was low and he sounded more than slightly distracted.

 

“Greg’s invited us to his place for a get-together. D’you want to come with? I’ve sort of already said I’d go.” He waits for the sullen sighing and patiently patronizing explanation of why it wouldn’t be worth it, but it doesn’t come. _Something is so incredibly off. Oh God, what if he’s back on the drugs? Mycroft mentioned that he was prone to relapsing when he was bored or upset._

 

“If it pleases you, I’d be more than willing to go.” _Shit, shit, shit. This isn’t right._

 

“Sherlock—,” John began, but was interrupted nearly immediately.

 

“John, there is nothing to worry about. I’ve seen you staring at me the whole time in the reflection of the window. I know you’re worried, and I’m telling you that everything is fine.” His monotone voice is still powerful enough that even when it’s quiet, John can feel its vibration in the air around him.

 

“Obviously you aren’t fine. What’s spooked you? Don’t try and shrug off my concern like it’s inconvenient. Let me help, Sherlock.” Sherlock turned to John, his face looking drawn and distressed, his mouth open as if he were on the verge of bursting whatever inner dam was preventing him from confiding in John. Within the same second, Sherlock’s eyes shifted to look out through the front window, and all at once, his face closed down, a blank slate. They’d arrived at the clinic.

 

“Sherlock, we are not getting out of this cab until you—Sherlock!” John scrambled out of the cab, following Sherlock who had essentially jumped out of the cab before it had come to a full stop. John tossed the fare into the cabbie’s lap before running to catch up to Sherlock, who was striding into the clinic, his coat billowing.

 

“You arse, I’m not letting you get out of this so easily. As soon as we get back to the flat we’re having a serious discussion about whatever’s been going on that you’re not telling me about. Are you listening to me?” John’s frustration was peaking, and he was in no mood to let things be.

 

“Of course, John.”

 

“See! There you go! You’re being polite. You don’t do polite. Politeness is reserved for when you’re undercover for a case, and for when you’re upset. As far as I know, there are no cases, leaving upset as the only explanation.” _You git, if I have to hold you down, I’m getting you to tell me what’s up._

 

“John, don’t be foolish. There are myriad other reasons why I could—.”

 

“No. Just. Stop trying to rationalize me in circles to throw me off.” _Christ, Sherlock…_

 

Sherlock responded with a look that John couldn’t read, a look that made John’s stomach feel sick with shame for dogging his friend so much. They passed through the sliding glass doors of the clinic, making their way to the desk, past the ragged but comfortable chairs that lined the walls. John recognized the man behind the desk from when he’d worked at the clinic, before Sarah had let him go.

 

“Hey Dave, is Sarah working today?” Dave looked up, his face smiling as he recognized John’s voice.

 

“John! Where’ve you been? And, yes, she’s in. She’s looking over some paper work. Mate, what happened to your face? Did you get mugged?” Dave’s face was cringed with sympathy as he eyed the rather tender bruises on John’s face. Then those sympathetic eyes traced over the rest of John, only returning to John’s face when Sherlock cleared his throat. _I knew Dave fancied me, but blatantly checking me out?_

 

“Yeah, yeah, something like that. Sorry I haven’t had time to stop by, but things have been a bit crazy, and I wasn’t sure whether or not Sarah wanted me hanging around since I was let go. D’you think she’d mind if I had her look me over? I got a bit roughed up last night and I wanted to make sure that nothing was fractured.”

 

Dave’s eyes clearly said ‘ _I certainly wouldn’t mind looking you over’_ but his tone was nothing short of exasperated.

 

“She’s been pining after you ever since you left. In fact, I think she’d jump at the chance to get you on her examination table, if you catch my drift.” _What the..?_

 

John let out a small, uncomfortable laugh at that. Dave had always been blunt, but this was just bordering on baiting John into saying he wasn’t interested in her, so that Dave would be free to make a move. It was then that Dave noticed Sherlock, who’d been standing about 3 feet behind John while he conversed with his ex-colleague.  John saw Dave’s breathing increase, and the way that his body-language changed when faced with the fashionably gaunt Detective. _This will end interestingly…_

 

Sherlock’s eyes barely grazed the more-than-mildly-aroused desk attendant, settling on one of the pastel landscapes that were framed on the wall behind the desk. John let out a silent sigh of relief at not being the object of Dave’s rather forward attentions, turning back to smirk at Sherlock who was looking away from John purposefully, his mouth set in a line of obvious annoyance. When Sherlock finally met John’s eyes, John gave Sherlock a suggestive eye-brow raise and tried not to laugh at Sherlock’s look of confusion.

 

“So Dave, do I need to fill out the paperwork or should I just head back?”

 

“What? Oh, yeah. Just step right into her office. Your friend will probably have to stay here though.” _No he wouldn’t. You just like looking at him. Any excuse to flirt, I swear._

 

John steps away from the desk, walking up to Sherlock. The Detective is still pointedly not looking in the direction of the smitten Dave, and John can’t help but giggle a bit at the sour look on Sherlock’s face.

 

“You’re going to want to watch out for him. He’s got no problem with being openly flirtatious with any man he fancies, and by the look of it, he’s definitely got you on his list. Think you can fend him off until I get back?”

 

“I’ve dealt with far worse in the past. He’s not the only one to hope for opportunity where there is none. I had a client once who left flowers and chocolates on my doorstep for the better part of a month, up until I had her evicted from her apartment. She made no contact after that, much to my joy. And let’s not forget Mr. Leary. Apparently being 60 didn’t hinder him from stalking me when I went on cases. He tried to bribe me into moving to the country with him by offering to provide me with as many fresh corpses as I desired. Luckily he communicated this through email, and it was really not very difficult to get a restraining order when I had Lestrade look into it. I can handle _Dave_ if he gets…how do you put it? Fresh?” Sherlock’s black mood seemed to have abated, at least for the moment, and John was treasuring the self-assured look that Sherlock was sporting.

 

John laughed, patted Sherlock on the shoulder and made his way down the hall, Dave barely sparing John a glance as he busied himself with undressing Sherlock with his eyes. The corridor that led to the offices looked exactly as it had when John had worked there, his eyes roving over the portraits of benefactors and founders of the clinic, their faces looking regal and forbidding. _The place even smells exactly the same. Same brand of lightly floral air-freshener covering up the odor of sterilizing chemicals. Eerie._

 

He steps up to Sarah’s door, seeing his eyes reflected back with a yellowish haze in the brass of her nameplate, and knocks. He hears papers rustling and a chair being pushed back. The door opens and there stands Sarah. _You look as beautiful as the last time I saw you. Sorry I messed things up._

 

“Oh, John. What’s happened to your face? Come in.” She steps aside, then closes the door once John has seated himself in one of the two chairs that face her desk.

 

“It’s good to see you Sarah, you look great. Oh, and I got into a bit of a scuffle last night. Things are feeling a little odd, so I figured I’d drop by to see if you’d be willing to look me over.” He tried to cover up how his voice automatically assumed a quieter, more intimate tone when talking to her. _Bad habit, that._

 

“Of course, John, but why didn’t you come in last night? You should have gotten checked out immediately.” Her face is worried, and her voice is chiding. _I can’t exactly tell her that I was kidnapped by a psycho criminal mastermind, now can I?_

 

“It was late, and I was exhausted. We were on a case and—.”

 

“That bloody mad detective let you avoid going to a hospital?! You could’ve had internal bleeding! You could have died overnight!” John is taken back by the ire in Sarah’s voice, the way her face flushed with anger.

 

“Sarah—.”

 

“No John,” She takes a breath, “We can’t do this now. I need to assess the damage, fix you up, and then we’ll have this conversation. Let’s go to Exam Room 1.” She walked out of the door without waiting for John to stand up, leaving him to close the door and contemplate just how much she blamed Sherlock for everything that happened that night at the Circus. John tucks away the sliver of anger that had lodged into his side, willing to forgive and forget. _She must be under a lot of stress._

 

Even though she is already out of sight, he makes his way to Exam Room 1, his body thrumming with something like anxiety. _I’d always assumed that she broke up with me because I had dragged her into danger, but I guess that I was wrong._

 

He steps through the door of the Exam Room, tentatively making his way to the table, sitting himself on the edge, his feet on the step. Sarah bustles about the room, avoiding John’s gaze as she slips a pair of gloves on.

 

“Your lip.”

 

“Split pretty good. I’ll need stitches. I think my ribs are bruised as well, and I’ve got quite a lot of bruising on my back.” He’s trying to convey his apology, his placation with his words. _I’ll let you be the doctor._

 

“Remove your shirt.” John does, feeling more exposed than he should considering that this is a normal interaction between a doctor and a patient _. It’s because of the past familiarity. Being (half) naked in front of her under entirely different circumstances than the last time._

 

“John…” Her voice is quiet and regretful. John looks down to see what the bruising has done since the last time he checked. Most of the bruising had been under the skin last night, looking faintly red, deepening to a faint blue. The contusions had come to the surface, the dusky purple and sharp splotches of scarlet making a striking display across his left side.

 

“Turn around, let me see your back.” He turns, and is relieved when she doesn’t let out an exclamation. Obviously the bruise on his side was worse.

 

“I’ll have to take an x-ray to make sure that your ribs aren’t fractured. I’ll tend to your lip once I’ve looked at it.” Her tone is cool, and her face has a hard look about the jaw. Her inner rage seemed to be on the verge of bubbling over.

 

More walking. _Can’t wait to leave. This went downhill unbelievably quickly._ The state of things with Sarah was definitely encouraging John to not let things take any longer than they must.

 

Heavy lead apron (pressure on the bruises). Sarah’s face is stony still. _Why are you so angry? Things could have been so much worse._ John feels his own frustration mounting.

 

Loud buzz as the x-ray is taken. He lets his thoughts wander; the need to escape from Sarah’s seething and bitter presence is dire.

 

Waiting. Walking back to the Exam Room. Holding the x-ray up to the light. _Bruised, just like I told you._

 

“Well, looks like you got lucky. Nothing broken or fractured. You’re going to want to avoid any vigorous physical activity. I’ll have a look at your lip and then we’ll figure out which prescription for pain medication will be best suited.” New gloves. Moves in close. John’s mind is racing with his impatience, everything about the atmosphere of the room screaming silently in their ears with the strength of their mutual discomfort and unhappiness. _How have things turned so dismal between us?_

 

Sarah moves away from John, gets a small vial of anesthetic out of the cupboard, gets a sterile syringe from a drawer, sets those aside.

 

“Sarah, what went wrong between us?” John’s voice is just above a whisper, his tone low and melancholy.

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock is what went wrong, John.” Her back is tense as she prepares a saline solution for him to swish through his mouth. John feels the hurt and anger that he’d been trying to smother getting closer to the surface.

 

“How do you mean?” His tone is quiet, dangerous.

 

“John, are you blind?! Do you not see what he does to you? You’re so willing to follow him everywhere that you jump head first into danger! This isn’t the first time that you’ve been injured because of him! He’s a bloody psycho, and he doesn’t care that he puts you at risk! He thrives on danger, and tragedy, and death. It doesn’t matter who’s dead, _even you!_ ” She obviously has more to say, but the stare that John is giving her has stemmed her flow of blasphemous words.

 

John’s body has gone still. Unnaturally still. His pupils have all but taken over the blue of his irises.

 

“You think I’m some sort of clueless, hero-worshipping side-kick, don’t you? That I’m just there to tell him how brilliant he is? He’s got the whole bloody world to tell him that. I follow him around because he’s my friend, and bloody careless with his own life, and has no one to save him from himself, not even his own bloody brother! D’you think I’d be able to sleep ever again if I knew that he died on a case because I wasn’t there? Because I’d decided to opt for the safer choice of staying home? And d’you really think that he’d be careless enough to not take me to a hospital if I needed it? God, you know nothing about him! Nothing!”

 

“Yet you stayed home last night. In what way does that—“

 

“ _For fuck’s sake_ , Sarah! I’m a bloody doctor too, in case you’ve forgotten! My injuries were nowhere near life-threatening! Now, the sooner you stitch me up, the sooner we can get out of each other’s hair.” His eyes bore into hers, daring her to say another word. He stands up, crosses to the counter, Sarah flinching back as he reaches around her to grab the cup with the saline solution in it, swishing it, and spitting it out into the sink with violence. He sits himself back on the table; his hands are in fists at his sides, his heart is beating quickly, the force of each pump making his fingers clench tighter.

 

He watches as she takes a breath, fills the syringe, approaches. His eyes never leave hers, the scowl carving deep lines into his forehead. He doesn’t flinch when the needle pricks the flesh next to the laceration under his lip. He notices the red fog permeating his mind, making everything muffled. Sarah’s face is strange looking, scared and confused. _Maybe she’s just realizing that I’m not as cuddly as she thought, finally recognizing me as something more than a passive tag-a-long._ John felt a grim satisfaction bloom in his chest as Sarah skittered away fearfully to get the thread and the curved needle to stitch his lip closed.

 

She returned to him, her chin trembling, whether with anger or fear and sadness he didn’t care. _You don’t know him, you don’t know me. You don’t get to pass judgment. You don’t get to have an opinion. No one does._

 

She sets her gloved hand against his face, the sensation strange, and he notes the gradient of feeling change over the distance from his cheek to his lip as the anesthetic kicks in fully. He lies back, hearing the wax paper that is drawn over the table crinkle under his weight. He watches her face as she uses the hooked needle to sew his flesh together, feeling only the slightest tug, her eyes looking shinier than normal. _Don’t tell me she’s going to cry. Nothing could possibly piss me off more than her fucking crying._ He meets her eyes dispassionately. Her gaze jumps quickly back to her sewing as she swallows. He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

 

She hurriedly finishes, cuts the thread with a pair of tiny scissors, and moves away to write up his prescriptions. She hands him the paper, he snatches it. He opens the door and leaves without looking back. He is still fuming internally as he stalks down the corridor towards the entrance, tempted to smash the glass covering the horrid portraits that lined the walls, angry that he won’t even be able to speak or yell properly until the numbness wears off. He passes Dave at the desk, purposely pushing the tiny, ugly vase full of faded fake flowers off the counter so that it smashes onto the floor next to the wheels of the man’s office chair. Sherlock, who’d been reclined rather seductively in one of the chairs, his long legs in their rather tight slacks stretched out in front of him, stands up with his brows raised in surprise as John motions to him that they were leaving. John ignores the outraged cries that Dave is directing at his back, reaching into his pocket as his mobile goes off.

 

**Stitches? What for? You two been**

**scrapping with street scum again?**

**Blimey, you guys should give it a rest.**

**Is he coming, then?**

**-GL**

 

John realizes that Sherlock is staring at him with intense interest as he typed his reply to Greg, and glares into his face until Sherlock makes an odd smile and turns away with his eyebrows raised again.

 

**We’ll be there. See you at 2.**

**Long story.**

**-JW**

 

Silence reigns up until they get into a cab, at which point Sherlock begins to chuckle. John turns to him quickly, his face looking scandalized.

 

“What? What’s so bloody funny Sherlock?”

 

“John, you look so—,” he can’t help but laugh again, “So _peeved_.” His laughter continues to fill the cab, which is still stationary as the cabbie waits for their destination to be set.

 

“You’re hilarious, Sherlock. A real comedian. Now where do you want to spend the next 4 hours before we go to Greg’s place?” His speech was slightly slurred, sending Sherlock into further hysterics _. Fan-fucking-tastic…_

 

They ended up asking to be dropped off at the nearest park, walking until they felt hungry enough to get lunch at a small café nearby. The food pained his lip since the anesthetic had worn off, but he relished it in the aftermath of his fading rage. It was there that John realized how sick he was of the rest of the world, the safe part, the humdrum of everyday living. He was staring off into space (but his eyes were rested directly on Sherlock), contemplating how he’d functioned before he’d moved to Baker Street, when Sherlock finally interrupted his thoughts.

 

“What were you and Sarah arguing about? Don’t think that I couldn’t hear your dulcet tones from the lobby. You both sounded quite upset, and my little deduction was proved by the way you proceeded to smash poor Dave’s silk daisies. You were positively radiating machismo and recklessness. What prompted your display of—let’s go with a more modern term—badassery?” Sherlock’s face twisted into another of his odd smiles at his own humor, causing John to let go of whatever petty grudge he’d held over Sherlock’s laughter. John smiled back before realizing that smiling was a painful thing to do. _How does one go about telling his best friend that he is the reason that one doesn’t have relationships with others?_

 

“You, actually. She was trying to convince me that you were bad for me, said that you thrived on danger and tragedy, that sort of thing. As if I don’t already know.” _As if I didn’t love every second of it._ “She thinks I’m this timid, shy man who likes crap telly and nights in, and that I got dragged into the life I have with you. How is it that no one realizes that it’s the exact opposite? That I can’t stand regular life? That I made the choice to tempt death at every bloody turn because I _like_ it? Have they all forgotten that I was a soldier? That I’ve killed people? As far as I’ve seen only you and your brother know the real me. It was Mycroft who made me realize that civilian life was slowly killing me, but it was you who gave me a way out. I haven’t said this damn near enough, so thanks, Sherlock. Thank you.” John sits back; his body is tired but satisfied by his outpouring. _In what way does that make sense? Exhausted but thrumming with suppressed energy._

 

“You’re obviously very, erm, passionate about our lifestyle. You’re welcome, though I think there may come a time where you’ll hate me for letting you involve yourself.” Sherlock’s smile was fading. He reached for a napkin, momentarily holding it to his lips before setting it back down. _Nervous fidgeting? Oh, Sherlock, whatever is wrong must be worse than I thought._ John’s face is a calm mask, shielding his feeling of helplessness from his friend as best he can.

 

“That will never happen. I would never let that happen. What we have is good. It works.” _Daft twit, I’m not going to let you push me away._

 

“I agree that your companionship is most beneficial and pleasant, but I believe that it is my companionship that is…lacking. I have no experience with helping others maintain happiness. I don’t know how to keep you safe…” Sherlock’s face has sunk to blank again. _Your default expression for when you don’t know how to express yourself._

 

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor and a soldier. I can take care of myself, and more often than not, I end up being the one keeping _you_ safe. I will follow you anywhere, but tell me what’s wrong so that I’m not stumbling blind, hanging onto your coattails. How can you expect me to be useful if I don’t know what’s got you bothered?” John’s voice is gentle, coaxing.

 

“I don’t. I expect you to remain behind for your safety.”

 

“No way, Sherlock. No. You can’t just sit me in a corner like I’m made of porcelain!” John’s desperation has forced its way into his voice. _Sherlock, see reason. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to yourself._

 

“John. You are…important to me. It makes sense to shield things that you value from harm, yes? That’s what I’m doing. Shielding you from things that would seek to break you.” _His eyes, my God, they look dead._

 

John takes in a shuddering breath, releasing the handful of tablecloth that he’d unconsciously bunched in his fists. He feels the telltale burning tingle in his nasal passages, and the familiar flood of heat to his face. He blinks back the first of his tears, feeling how his throat became tight with misery. _God, why do you do this to yourself? Isolating yourself from the world._ A single tear rolls down each cheek, leaving trails of moisture that cool rapidly under the light breeze caused by cars rolling by. He closes his eyes, focusing on breathing, focusing on not screaming and ranting and raving about the stupidity of the bravest, most amazing man he’s ever known. John hears Sherlock’s sudden intake of breath, knowing that Sherlock has spotted his tears.

 

“John…dearest John.” John’s tense hands are covered by the slack, repentant hands of his Detective, the warmth in the gesture, surprising _. You can’t just leave me behind._

 

John pulls his hands slowly out from under Sherlock’s, putting them over his eyes, his elbows resting on the counter as he brings himself back to some level of mental homeostasis. He breathes out through his mouth, feeling the air hiss through his constricted throat, the pressure of his palms stopping any more tears from escaping. The weight in his chest makes it even harder to breathe, causing his breath to hitch with every lungful of air. He drags his hands down his face, the tears spreading underneath them, drying within moments.

 

“I can’t let you do that, Sherlock. I’m not letting you. I’m sticking with you, no matter what. I’m not going to let you have all the danger and glory for yourself.” John gives his Detective a small smile, the smile clashing with his reddened face and sad eyes. _Attempt at humor? Failed, but hopefully he gets my point._

 

“I knew you’d say that,” Sherlock murmurs with the slightest smile, his eyes filled with gratitude and worry. “Brave John, strong John, loyal John. Has anyone ever told you that you’re utterly incorrigible? The most stubborn, bull-headed arse in existence? Aside from me of course. I don’t know how anyone puts up with you.”

 

John laughs, the sound tripping oddly over whatever lump was still stuck in his throat. Sherlock chuckles quietly on his side of the table as he makes his first real smile since the night before.

 

“God, Sherlock. What’s wrong with us? Crying and laughing, all in broad daylight? People might talk.” John’s brows are twitching as he tries to keep a straight face. _I wish we’d laugh more often, like this._

 

“There are many things wrong with us, John, but I couldn’t possibly care less than I already do. Everyone else can sod off.”

 

A moment of impulse. John reaches out, grabs Sherlock’s hands in his, and holds on tight. _Can you feel the promise that I’m giving you? I’ll never leave you. I won’t abandon you._

 

“Sherlock, this may sound weird, but I think we’ve already given up on being normal. I love you. I love living with you, chasing down psycho circus ninjas, and shooting cabbies.” John watches Sherlock’s face, fearing to see misunderstanding, but all he sees are the creases at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes as he wears a goofy smile. “I love getting the shit scared out of me every time I open the fridge and find some new horror. In fact, I love you so much, that I think the world, or at least this little corner of London, has to know.” Without further ado, John stands, raises his arms and announces to the street at large “I love this man! This amazing, fantastic, brilliant man!”

 

A few heads turns, but other than that, his outburst goes completely unnoticed. He sits back down, laughing at the deep crimson on Sherlock’s cheeks as the Detective laughs so hard that his body is heaving but making no noise.

 

“Sherlock, I believe we are suffering from what teens these days call a _bromance_. Do you concur? OH MY GOD. This means that we can buy those necklaces that say “Best” on one half of the heart, and “Friends” on the other!”

 

Sherlock is waving his hands helplessly as he continues to gasp for breath, his eyes watering, the tears streaming down his face.

 

“Cease and desist! I can’t breathe!” Sherlock is coughing now, his arms wrapped around his middle.

 

“Oh no you don’t! We’re stopping by a Claire’s on the way over to Greg’s to pick out our necklaces. Speaking of that, we need to get going now, or we’ll be late.” John checks the time on his phone, gets out his wallet, and pays for their meal, standing up. Sherlock is staring at John, shaking his head, small bouts of breathy laughter still breaking free from his body every few seconds. Both of them are still grinning as they hail a cab.

 

 _Greg’s house is neat. Almost creepily tidy_ , John thinks to himself as he walks through the front door after Lestrade had greeted them. Sherlock follows directly behind him, and John can feel him getting apprehensive, regretting that he agreed to accompany John. There are people perched around a large television in the main room, all of them clutching cans of beer, focused so intently that none of them notices their arrival until the DI yells to catch their attention.

 

“Oi, you lot! I hope you left some food and beer left. Make room!” The room really was packed, at least 9 Yarders were there, on top of a group of about 4 or 5 of Greg’s friends. John turns to look at Sherlock, smiling sympathetically, leading him by his elbow to the kitchen area (also neat), where it was quieter, and less people were there to stare at the sight of the antisocial Detective making his debut into “sports fanatic” society.

 

“Hey, John! You missed the first bit! Your team’s losing, mate! You’ll owe me a tenner by the time the game is done, I know it!” John smiles, the owner of the voice hidden in the crowd.

 

“In your dreams, Weston! You don’t have a chance!” As John responds, he gets a questioning look from Sherlock. “What? I watch football when you’re out and about. So what if I have a few friendly bets going?”

 

“Gambling, John? You’ve sunk so low!”

 

Greg walks back into the kitchen and John takes in his team pride. The DI is wearing both the jumper, and the sweatpants of his team, and has used his daughter’s finger-paint to give himself wobbly streaks of color across his cheeks.

 

“Help yourselves to a beer, mates. Wait, you mentioned that you can’t have alcohol, right? Crying shame.”

 

“Actually, I haven’t filled the prescription for my meds yet, so,” John plucks two beers out of the cooler, “I think I’ll be having quite a few of these.” He hands the second one to Sherlock, who looks at it with curiosity.

 

“You’re face is looking pretty mashed. Show me the stitches.” The DI hisses between his teeth. “How’d you manage that?”

 

John glances at Sherlock before he continues.

 

“Just the usual. Petty criminal. Cornered. Lashed out. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Greg smirks, claps a hand on John’s shoulder that jolts his entire body ( _ouch_ ) and walks off.

 

John turns around to a strange sight. Sherlock nestled in amongst the other people, drinking his beer, his face lit with a vague curiosity. _Never thought I’d see the day that you were actually interested in watching football. This is too good to be true. Any second now he’ll insult everyone in the room and flounce out._

Nothing of the sort happened.

 

Sherlock didn’t stand up to cheer like the others, but he still was hugged repeatedly in the excitement over the goals, even once by both Donovan and Anderson at the same time. He’d seen Sherlock stiffen when he saw them closing in, but when they released him and moved to hug each other, he stared around at John, a look of the deepest amused confusion on his face.

 

John had most certainly had too much to drink by the time the party had ended, and everyone started to go home. It was just getting dark outside, the streetlamps beginning to buzz into life. He was laughing rather loudly at something someone had said as he was helped down the stairs by a slightly-more-than-slightly-drunk Sherlock, who was also laughing a little madly. They scrambled into the cab that Greg had gotten for them, seating themselves a little haphazardly as the cab moved off towards Baker Street.

 

“Shhrlock, you’re my best—my best friend.” John’s words were split by hiccoughs and his words were slurring worse than they had when his face was numb earlier.

 

“I know, I know. I remember! You yelled it loud enough for…everyone to hear back at the café. Such professions of love can be misinterpreted by those who don’t know us, Jawn.” Sherlock had only had 4 beers, but was definitely plastered since he didn’t drink very often.

 

“Nd why should I care what they mis-terpret? You’re my best friennnd, and I love you. What’sss wrong with that? Not-A-Damn-Thing, thaz what.”

 

John felt himself leaning sideways, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, hearing the breathing of his best friend as he starts to fall asleep. The deep baritone that Sherlock possesses rumbles in his chest, sounding muffled and loud at the same time.

 

“Love you, too.”

 

John’s eyelids droop down.

 

He sleeps.


	8. Jim

_Bored. Bored. Bored. Derob. Derob. Derob._

 

Jim lies face down on the couch back at the flat, breathing into the cushions. It’s been only 4 hours since they’d got back from lunch after their little visit to Baker Street and he’s already going mad with the dullness of life. _Ugh, I can feel brain rotting in my skull. It’ll come leaking out of my ears soon, right onto the couch. What a shame. I like this fabric._

 

“Sebastian, you diseased twat, I thought you’d said we’d be starting those redundant self-defense lessons.” The flat is quiet. “Get your arse out here. I know you’ve always wanted me sweaty, vulnerable and at your mercy. Don’t keep me waiting.”

 

Jim had tossed his black jacket unceremoniously onto the floor soon after they'd walked through the door of the flat. Seb had picked it up and thrown it into Jim's room as he walked past, and had then proceeded to disappear (Jim had assumed he was showering but heard no water), leaving Jim alone and bored beyond reason.

 

“Seb!” Jim turns himself over, his voice rising in impatience and frustration _. I swear on my own empire, if he doesn’t get out here and do something horrible to me I’m going to lock him out for the rest of the night._

 

With a throaty growl, Jim lazes himself into a standing position, shoulders slumped with the hideous vulgarity of the task of searching for his bodyguard in his own flat.

 

“If you’re cleaning that bloody rifle again, I’m going to have it melted down and turned into a chastity belt.” Jim rounds the door to his room, finding nothing. “Where in the bloody fuck have you gotten to, you gargantuan bastard?”

 

Jim saunters into his master bathroom, his shoulders back, prepared to look angry and confrontational; not prepared to find nothing, yet again.

 

“Seb, this is boring and tedious. Listen, my little fuck-tart. You’ll pay for this when I find you. Pay for this with your guns and ammunition. You’ll be using a bow-and-arrow from now on.” Jim’s pseudo-patience has holes worn into it from all of this nonsense. _Oh, honey, all of the guns. Every last bullet, too…_

 

He kicks open the door to his office, leaving a fashionably diamond-patterned scuff mark with his shoe. He makes a childish noise of rage when he doesn’t find the towering blond, bothering to check to see of Seb was hiding under his desk. In a huff he rushes to check the guest room; the floors still have blood on them, and the black ring of soot is definitely going to need quite a lot of work _. I’ll have him fix this room too, scrubbing and mopping. Then I’ll make him sleep on the floor if I have to light the bloody couch on fire._

 

He’s on his way past the kitchen when he has an idea.

 

He continues walking without a hitch, making a show of whipping his head around as if looking for Seb. _This’ll be easier than I thought._ He lets his foot connect with the edge of the counter and is thrown forwards, trying awkwardly to catch himself before he hits the ground, his left ankle twisting. He hears an odd sound. _And the bait is set..._

 

“ _Shit, motherfucking, bastard-child of a goddamn whore fleet!_ ” His words leave his mouth in a stream, nearly surprising himself.

 

  _Hurt more than I thought it would, but I’ll be damned if this doesn’t work. The Twat-Meister will be on Jim Duty for the next month until this heals. Payback’s a bitch, darling._ His mouth is twisting with pain as he attempts to get up, using the counter to pull himself upright. He stands using his good leg, gently trying to put his weight on his left foot, gasping and swearing some more as the pain shoots up his leg.

 

“Sebastian Fucking Moran. I’m going to fucking—,“ Jim feels a large hand close on his throat from behind, throwing him sprawling onto the floor. He manages to twist onto his back, looking at Seb with wide eyes as the larger man straddles him, Jim’s airway all but closed by the pressure of the sniper’s hands. _Fuck. Seb, you’re such an…why are you strangling me?_

 

“Seb!” The word gurgles in Jim’s throat as he looks at the grimly smiling face of his bodyguard. He feels his face turning red, nearly purple as he fights against the impossibly heavy frame that is bearing down on him. Jim’s thoughts have turned fuzzy with the lack of oxygen. _What? Why? Has he finally decided to kill me?_

 

“Go ahead, Jim. Defend yourself. And how’d you know my middle name was Fucking?” Seb chuckles as Jim’s eyes water, his mouth opening and closing, his hands beating uselessly against Seb’s muscular arms, the grip steady on Jim’s thin neck. He can feel his left ankle light on fire with pain every time the heel of his shoe bounces off the floor as he flails his legs. _Struggling. Not working._

Seb sits back on his heels, settling his weight on Jim’s legs, letting go of his throat. Jim coughs, taking in huge shaky breaths, nearly vomiting, holding his hands to his soon-to-bruise neck. He tries to turn over and crawl, but his legs are pinned to the floor. He draws in another breath, his head feeling light.

 

“Your guns, your knives, your swords. All of them!” Cough. “Even the fucking zip-line. All gone!” _It’s hard to sound stern and angry when your voice comes out as a croak. This requires a new level of retaliation._

 

“Now now, sweetums. You say another word against my guns or my knives and I just might have to put you in time-out.” Seb reaches over, pats Jim’s cheek, laughs and then stands, letting Jim drag himself along the floor, coughing and swearing, his legs having long since gone numb under Seb. _You and your fat arse._

 

Jim has nearly made it to the edge of the carpet that marks the border between the living room and the kitchen. He hears Seb walking behind him, watching him, taking his time. The twinge from his ankle is making its presence known again, the throbbing nearly making him lose focus.

 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Cough. _No more speaking. Speaking means coughing, and coughing is just plain undignified._

 

“You know you love it. And yes, I have always wanted you sweaty, vulnerable, and at my mercy. Christmas’s come early. The question is…what are you going to do about it Jim? Going to let me beat you senseless? Possibly have my way with you? Kill you? These are the things that you’re going to need to learn to defend yourself against, and Jimmy, this is a crash course.”

 

With those words Seb moves in, pulling Jim’s head backwards by his hair, whispering to him.

 

“This is your life that I’m training you to fight for. Don’t fuck this up.” He releases Jim’s hair violently, Jim’s head falling forwards onto his tired arms, his slender body looking helpless against the shining tile with his shirt rucked halfway up his torso, letting the pale skin underneath glow under the fluorescent light of the kitchen, the fingers of one hand just barely brushing the carpet in the living room. _New tactic._

 

“Seb,” he lets his voice crack, shifts slightly, weakly, “Sebastian, please stop.” His voice sounds on the verge of tears. _Oh, nothing like playing injured and exposed to rile a sadistic soldier._ Seb’s breathing increases, the sound of it loud compared with Jim’s feeble gasping. _Well if those aren’t sounds of arousal, then I’m a bloody virgin. All goes as planned._

 

Jim hears Sebastian shake off whatever he was struggling against internally, hears him walk to his right side. Seb tucks his shoe under Jim’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back, grunting with anger when he sees Jim’s face lacking the pathetic expression to match his pathetic cries for mercy. Jim’s face is cruelly neutral. _Get angry, pet. Go on, shatter my calm._

 

“Little shit.” Seb vents his anger on Jim’s neck again, completely closing his throat, but the lack of expression stayed where it was, never faltering, not even when Seb resumed his position on top of Jim. Once Seb was firmly seated on Jim’s tiny body, assuming his victory, Jim let his tongue lick his lips, Seb’s eyes latching onto that small movement. Jim begins to writhe his hips, creating friction between the point where his groin meets Seb’s, letting out little gasps as he grinds himself upwards. Seb’s eyes are wide, never leaving Jim’s as his hands grasp the thin man’s throat; Jim’s Adam’s apple dances under his thumbs. Jim places his delicate hands Seb’s hips, fingers creeping under the hem of his shirt, stroking the flesh just underneath. Seb’s grip has slackened slightly. _Who’s the genius here? I am. There’s a reason why I’m still alive. Manipulation. It always feels this good. I know just how to twist you._

 

Jim lets needy little whimpers break free as his hands slide themselves up Seb’s stomach, the shirt bunching against his wrists as the hot flesh that covers hard muscle quivers against his palms. Seb’s breath is coming out in feral growls, his hands laying themselves flat on the ground on either side of Jim’s head as Seb lowers his face…and laughs. _What._

 

Seb is laughing, positively hooting with mirth. _What._ Seb stands. Laughing. _WHAT._ The blond man is the epitome of triumphant amusement. Jim still sprawls on the floor, staring up at Seb, his eyes unable to mask his anger at his own defeat.

 

“You devious fucking prick,” is all that Jim can get out before Seb puts his hands under Jim’s arms and helps him limp over to the couch.

 

“Fooled you, didn’t I?” Seb’s grin is wide and shining. He sits on the coffee table in front of Jim. _Oh, you’ve got a knack for this, Seb. Just fucking brilliant._

 

“Hmm, only you Seb. Only you.” Jim’s voice is thick with a mocking envy. _Only you…_

 

“Did you think it’d be that easy to reel me in? Ha, holy shit, you got so into playing up the wounded-and-horny damsel that even I was starting to believe it. You little fuck, you _would_ fucking hurt yourself.” Seb reaches down, grabs Jim’s scrawny left calf, and guides his leg up to rest on his own muscular thigh as he slides the cuff of the pant leg up to reveal the thin ankle underneath.

 

“It would’ve worked on anyone. You just know my tricks.” Jim pouts, leaning back into the couch cushions, his leg still resting on Seb’s. _Once they’d gotten lusty and sure that I wasn’t going to fight back, I could easily have killed them._

 

“You can’t assume that, Jim. Some people get off on the idea of having someone struggling underneath them, and you trying to play off that could always go very wrong. You try and pull that little stunt again and all you’re going to get is a sound beating from me. It’s not like you can run away, anyway.” Seb tightens his hold around Jim’s ankle, causing him to hiss with pain while Seb’s face warps into a wolfish grin.

 

“Fuck off,” whispers Jim. _We’re predators, you and I, Seb. I’m just a different breed. You’re outwardly predatory, killing using brawn and tactic. I’m more discreet, traps and lures, waiting and watching for the moment when a snap of my fingers can make everything tumble. Well, unless I’m in the mood for a little chaos. That’s why you’re here._

 

“Oh really, now? Like you were trying to get me do when you were struggling, cute as a kitten underneath me? Honestly, it was the most adora—.” Seb is cut off by the impact of Jim’s featherweight, both of them tumbling off the coffee table, onto the floor.

 

“I’M—NOT—FUCKING—CUTE!” Jim punctuates each word with punches that only serve to make Sebastian laugh from where he’s laying, not even bothering to block the weak blows.

 

“Stop, Jim! That tickles!” Seb rolls around, pretending to shield himself.

 

“I know for a fact that you’re not ticklish, so SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Jim tries to hit Seb’s face with a tiny fist, but the larger man catches  it before it reaches him, and it feels like Jim’s hand has run into a fleshy wall. He struggles to pull his arm back to his body, but Seb’s grip is vice-like, growing tighter, once more inducing Jim to gasp with pain. _Bloody motherfucker…_

 

“Let go, you behemoth!” Seb pulls on the arm in his grip, dragging Jim off of him and onto the ground, where he promptly pins Jim’s arms to the floor. Jim flails, no longer caring whether his injured ankle sears with pain.

 

“You’re not strong enough to break out by force, Jim. You won’t be able to seduce your way out, either. This isn’t a battle you can fight. You have to outsmart your opponent, using the advantages that they give you. There are ways for you to get out of this. You see where my body is? It’s to the side of you, and my torso is stretched over yours as I hold you down, leaving your legs free. Bring your legs up and use your knees against my chest, and push off. At the very least , you’ll weaken my hold. Or you could knee my ribs—I swear, Jim, if you actually knee me in my goddamn fractured ribs, I’m going to fucking hurt you. The point is, find a way to get free. What will you do then?” Seb’s voice sounds like a teacher trying to lead a student to the correct conclusion. The tone irks Jim to no end.

 

“Slit their throats,” Jim snarls, still straining against Seb.

 

“No. You run. Run as fast and as far as you can.” Seb’s voice is stern. _Blah, blah, blah._

 

“Will you let me the fuck up? Having a bloody Viking-reincarnate looming over me is getting to be quite tiresome.” _Bloody hell, you  weigh a ton._

 

“We’re not done here. Now we’ll try this out.” Seb lets go of Jim’s arms, and  Jim is tempted to lash out right then and there. Seb is kneeling back, grabbing one of Jim’s knees and bringing it over, leaving his legs wide open as Seb moves in, closing the distance between them. “Now, if someone has you trapped like this, with their body between your legs, and their arm holding your chest down, you’re going to first want to wrap your legs around their torso—gently! Fractured ribs, remember?”

 

“For fuck’s sake Seb, there is no way that this is part of the lesson. I swear you’re just trying to get me into sex positions, and darling, there is no way you’d be a top.” Jim wraps his legs around Seb’s hips anyway. The backs of Jim’s thighs rest directly against the top of Seb’s at an angle, as Seb is still in a semi-kneeling position.

 

“There’s no way I’d be a bottom, so how about we leave it at that? Ok, now that you’ve got your legs around me, you’re going to want to grasp my right arm with both of your hands. Your right hand needs to grab my wrist, and your left needs to grab my upper arm just above the elbow, so that I can’t pull my arm away. Once you’ve got a secure grip, put the heel of your left foot against my hip so that you can use it to—oh yeah, you had to go and fuck that one up, didn’t you? Alright, we’ll switch it to the other side.” Seb switches out his right arm for his left, placing it diagonally across Jim’s thin chest. “Grab my left wrist with your left hand, grabbing my upper arm just above the elbow with your right hand. Now that you’ve got a good grip, place the heel of your right foot against my left hip. You’re going to use my hip to push yourself to the left, and then you’re going to use the change in the angle of our bodies to put that same leg over my neck, now that my body is perpendicular to yours. See? You’ve got my head trapped, and my arm is still in your hold at an angle that’s awkward for me. Now you would just need to shift your hips upwards—don’t actually do it, you twat! That’s how you break your attackers elbow.“

 

“You mean thrust? Like this, Sebby?” Jim gently moves upwards, and hears Seb growl as the strain on the back of his elbow increases. _What do you expect when you give me the upper hand?_

 

“I knew that I’d regret teaching you this, at least to an extent. Our lessons are going to be kind of jumpy, without a lot of order since I’m just teaching you what I think would be useful for someone of your body type.” Seb is still trapped, his voice muffled against the back of Jim’s right thigh, the vibration tickling Jim’s popliteal area, right at the back of his knee. “You’re going to need to let me go, you sod.”

 

“What if I was to say no? What if I just kept you here?” Jim’s voice is casual, lilting a bit as it does when he’s being coy.

 

“First off, I could always just bite your thigh.” So saying, Seb moves as if he is going to be as good as his word, laughing when Jim’s leg flinches. “Or I could just do this.” Seb reaches his free arm down and stabs his pointer finger into Jim’s side, causing Jim to jerk and flail. _How dare you tickle me?_ Seb reacts quickly, twisting his arm over so that his elbow joint is pointing upwards, allowing him to bend his elbow in a non-breaking way, taking advantage of Jim’s sudden release of his arms, completely removing himself from the hold.

 

“It’s a good thing for me that you’re ticklish as hell, then huh?” Seb is smug. Jim is annoyed. _Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the promise I made to you. All of you weapons. Not even a bloody bow-and-arrow!_

 

“You’re a bloody cheat. And ouch, you asshole. Had to go and _stab_ me with your goddamn finger.” Jim’s side is sore, the ache pulsing from the point where Seb had jabbed him.

 

“There’s no such thing as cheating when it comes to saving your own life, you daft sod. Now, you remember how I had you in the kitchen? Your hips were pinned underneath mine, and I was reaching down with my hands on your throat.” Seb resumes this position, this time encircling Jim’s neck with his hands gently. “Your hands are free. What are you going to do with them? Trying to pry my fingers away didn’t work last time, what makes you think it’ll work now? When I was fighting John, I had him pinned like this as well, but he used his hand to push my head sideways, interrupting whatever grasp I had on his neck. Try it out.” _How the hell am I supposed to be able to shift your weighty arse?_

 

Jim raises his eyebrows appreciatively when it works, his hand forcing Seb’s body to follow his head, causing him to roll to the side.

 

“Alright, now use the momentum of your arm as it forces me sideways to seat yourself on me the same way I was on you.”

 

The larger man goes back to pinning Jim, letting him go through the steps, noticing the way it felt natural to follow through with the motion, rolling and mounting Seb, his knees barely reaching the ground on either side of the sniper’s waist, subconsciously keeping slightly back from the man’s injured ribs. For a moment Jim sits, looking down at Seb with a practiced school-girl innocence and uncertainty. _Too bad there’s no one here to see this. We make quite the pretty picture; me sitting on his lap demurely while he stares up with his piercing eyes. This sounds like a set up for Hentai._

 

“While it would be easy as hell for me to just do the same thing back to you, I’m going to give you a different scenario. You’ve got me pinned, well, as pinned as a lightweight like you can. I’m going to reach up and grab your throat. It’s important to try notice what your attacker’s dominant arm is. Mine is my right, so what you need to do is place your right hand in the center of my chest, under the angle created by my arms extending to your neck.”

 

_Of all the pointless…why bother to try and escape when it’s more fun to die? More interesting, at least. More interesting still if the death is public. Always nice to leave a lasting impression…I’d be more entertained if I was watching someone be beaten to death with a spoon. Or being beaten to death with a spoon myself. Holy buggering fuck, this is so dull..._

 

“Jim, you twat.” Seb’s voice echoes down into the well of Jim’s mind, and he snaps back to the present, his bored expression still in place. “I’m trying to get you to pay attention to something that could save your bony arse when you’re in a tight spot. Pun intended.”   
  
  


Seb shakes his head, letting out an exasperated breath. _Did you just call me a twat? I think you did. That just means I have to think of another one of your toys to take away._  
  
  


“Next, place your left hand over your right, but this time you’re going to want to put your left arm over mine, so that my right arm is essentially trapped in the space in between your arms. Lean all of your weight forwards onto the point where your hands are on my chest, restricting my movement. Bring up your right leg, placing your foot flat on the floor next to my hip. Now twist your body to the left, so that your left knee is next to my head, and your right leg is extended across my torso.” Seb grimaces a little under the slight weight of Jim’s leg.   
  
  


“Now bring your left leg around my head, sitting on the ground, hugging my arm to you, and then lean back. This is the same as the last one, in that if I were a real attacker, you’d thrust upwards, breaking their arm.”  
  
  


Jim lets go of Seb’s arm, leaving his legs where they are, draped across Seb’s chest, and Seb leaves his arm in Jim’s lap. Both of them are breathing heavily. Jim notices that his heart beat is elevated, having been completely oblivious to it in light of the mock life-threatening situation. The sweat on his skin is cooling rapidly, giving him chills that make his flesh breakout with goose bumps. Well, today was definitely not entirely boring.  
  
  


“Seeeeeb. I’m tired. My ankle hurts. Can’t we be done for the day? The tedium and muscle soreness are starting to get to me.” _Not to mention getting squashed by you, you bloody Clydesdale..._

 

“Jesus, Jim. You’re made out of marshmallow. Do you have any actual muscle on your body? That’s definitely something that we’ll be working on over the next few months.”  
  
  


“MONTHS. BLOODY FUCKING MONTHS. There is no way in hell that I’m going to waste months on this.”Jim looks scandalized as he glares at Seb from his position on the ground. _Where do you get off thinking that I’ll go along with this?_  
  
  


“You don’t have a choice, princess. You’re not exactly Muhammad Ali when it comes to punching, so you’ll forgive me when I say that you hit like a girl. No, scratch that. You hit like a toddler. For fuck’s sake, even a toddler could hit harder. You’re aware that Holmes is a black belt in Bartitsu, right? There is no way that you’d make it even 5 seconds if it came down to an actual hand-to-hand combat situation. You’d be floored, not to mention dead.”   
  


Seb rolls to the side, Jim’s legs slithering to the ground as Seb stands up. Jim latches onto the crook of Seb’s elbow, letting the other man pull him to his feet. _Jesus, I feel like a pilot fish, hooking myself to the underside of fucking great white. Doesn’t even notice that it’s being used for food and transport._  
  
  


“Which brings me to my next point. I think that it would be better for you, considering your body type, if we were to start you off with kick-boxing. You’re already light and quick, and by the time 2 months have passed, you’ll be strong enough to actually use those advantages in a fight.” Seb looks down, noticing for the first time that Jim is hanging onto him, a thin arm looped through his.  
  
  


“You going my way, doll?” Seb’s grin is shit-eating, and his tone is so horribly reminiscent of Elvis Presley, that Jim finds himself responding in kind before he can stop himself.  
  
  


“Depends, daddio. Where we headed?” _Oh, please tell me I did not just say that...._  
  
  


“The sofa, you git.”  
  
  


“Lead on, Cuntalicious.” _What on earth am I saying? I swear, even I’m surprised sometimes by the words that come out of my mouth._  
  
  


“That’s Mr. Cuntalicious to you.”  
  
  


“Oh, Ta-ta-ta-ta-tasty tasty... Cuntalicious definition makes the crime lords loco--,” Jim trills as he pulls Seb in close, he lets his eyes glaze over, and a stupid smile plays about his mouth. His hand slips into Seb’s front right pocket, spiriting away the lighter held there. _Now to make good on one promise..._  
  
  


“OI, hands out of the pants, please. Alright, sweet cheeks. That’s enough. I think the pain is getting to you.” Seb guides Jim over to the couch, leaving him there as he goes to fetch ice for Jim’s ankle.   
  
  


Jim stares at the cheap plastic of the lighter, admiring how so much potential lethality can be kept in such a plain casing. He flicks the lighter experimentally, delighted with the sparking and spitting of the fuse. As soon as Seb turns around, a bag of some frozen vegetable item in his arms, Jim stands, kisses the plastic lighter, sparks it, and tosses it onto the couch.  
  
  


“What the fuck, Jim!” Seb snatches the lighter from Jim’s slack grip. Jim’s face is content as he watches the flames grow higher, letting himself take in the glory, swaying from side to side, humming quietly to himself. He closes his eyes and ignores the sounds of Seb rushing to get one of the many fire extinguishers that have been strategically placed around their flat, purring out loud as the heat of the growing flames becomes nearly unbearable.   
  
  


Jim hears Seb hurry back. He hears the sound of the fire extinguisher do what it was meant to: extinguish. _Spoiling my fun, as usual._

“Jim...What. The. Fuck.”  
  
  


“What? Can’t a boy have some fun? This is, after all, my flat. Oh, _dear me_. Looks like you’ll be sleeping on the floor Sebastian, darling.” _Oh, tut tut. Look at the mess I’ve made._  
  
  


“Bull-fucking-shit, Jim.” Seb’s eyebrows are raised and his face is smug.   
  
  


“Excuse me?” _Talking back, now are we?_  
  
  


“You’re bed is big enough to fit an entire rugby team. There is no way you’re shunting me to the floor.”   
  
  


“There’s no way you’re sleeping in my bed. No. Way.”  
  
  


“You can’t stop me.”  
  
  


“Oh, can’t I?” _Shit, actually can’t. Unless I’m willing to light my bed on fire, as well. No way in hell am I sacrificing my goose feather pillows._  
  
  


“I’m going to go with no, you can’t.” So saying, Seb crosses over to Jim, lifts him bodily off the floor and carries him into the master bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. _I’ll have to get everything dry-cleaned._  
  
  


Jim is tossed onto the bed as Seb walks into the master bathroom, shucking his clothes off as he goes.   
  
  


“You’re going to use up all my bloody soap, you fuckhead!” _I will get my revenge._  
  
  


“Damn straight,” Seb calls over his shoulder, stepping into the shower.  
  
  


Jim growls a little, crossing the floor in between the bed and his chest-of-drawers, fiddles with his surround-sound stereo, the speakers placed all over the bedroom and bathroom, and then stands back, waiting.  
  
  


The Thieving Magpie Overture blasts out of each speaker, the volume deafening. _No doubt the entire street can hear this._  
  
  


Jim smirks to himself as he imagines the reaction of the sniper to the sudden onslaught of noise, relishing the image of him jumping a foot in the air. _Serves you right, you invasive son of a--_  
  


 

Jim feels chills creep up his spine as he hears a loud baritone hum coming from the bathroom. In time with the music. _The fucker....he can’t be serious..._  
  
  


Defeated once more, Jim settles himself into a pout on the edge of the bed, kicking his right leg into the air, letting it thump against the frame of the bed. _You know what? No fucking towel for you._  
  
  


Jim creeps, limping slightly, to the archway of the bathroom, slips in, and hurriedly grabs the single dry towel from its shelf. He creeps back out, towel in hand, and perches at the end of the bed, quickly stuffing the towel under it.

 

Jim hears the water shut off, quickly adopting an innocent expression, trying not to laugh when he hears Seb open the door to the shower. Without pause, Seb walks directly into the bedroom looks at Jim with a pitying smile, and crosses to his wardrobe, pulling out one of Jim’s expensive suits. Jim’s mouth drops open.  
  
  


“You wouldn’t dare.”  
  
  


“Wouldn’t I?” Without further ado, Seb begins to dry himself off on the insanely expensive fabric.  
  
  


“You bastard. You absolute bastard,” mutters Jim quietly, wincing as Seb moves to dry his nether regions. _The poor, poor thing. I’ll have to have it incinerated._  
  
  


Seb tosses the suit into a rumpled, damp, pathetic pile on the floor and stalks over to the bed, stark naked but comfortably dry.   
  
  


“I will burn you. I will burn the disrespect for fine clothing out of you. I’ve let you avoid wearing the suits I’ve bought you before, but no longer! You’ll wear Armani and you will like it.”  
  
  


“Make me.” Seb throws back the sheet.  
  
  


“Starting now.” Jim crosses to his wardrobe as fast as his limp permits him, and pulls out a tie. By the time that he is halfway to the bed, Seb is already under the covers, the sheet pulled up over his head.  
  
  


“I’m not putting it on.” Seb shakes his head emphatically from under the sheet.  
  
  


“You will wear formal wear to bed if I say so! You just rubbed your bloody junk all over my favorite suit! You will put on the damn tie every night before bed until you learn to respect my clothes for the glorious creations they are!”

 

Seb sits up, the sheet bunching around his waist as he turns to face Jim, a sigh of immeasurable weariness exiting his lungs as he does so. Jim drapes the tie around Seb’s neck before walking off towards his wardrobe again.  
  
  


“Tie it yourself,” Jim sings as he strips down, tossing his sweaty clothes to the floor next to his ruined suit.   
  
  


“I’ll wear it so long as you agree to keep up with the self-defense.”  
  
  


“No promises, Sebby.” Jim slips into fresh clothes, entirely forgoing pajamas, returning to the bed.  
  
  


“What? No jimjams?” Seb is already settled on the left side of the bed, eyeing Jim as he crawls onto the mattress.  
  
  


“Sod off.” Jim curls under the sheet on the right side of the bed, fully clothed, facing away from Seb.  
  
  


“Aw, don’t pout, love.” Jim hears Seb shift until he’s lying directly behind Jim, their bodies aligning as Seb nestles down, Jim’s back directly pressed against Seb’s chest.  
  
  


“I swear to God, Seb, if I wake up with your morning wood poking me in the back I’m going to strangle you with that fucking tie, and then set the flat on fire with us both inside.” _Good riddance._  
  
  


“No promises, Jimmy.”

 

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep.” Jim leans back against his sniper, and lets the world fade.


	9. Sherlock

“Hey, mate. Hey, wake up!” Sherlock’s eyes open, blearily glancing around for the source of the voice, his stomach churning a little. “You’re gonna to need to wake up now. We’re at your destination and I’d _really_ like to be off.”

 

Sherlock shakes himself a little, the voice of the cabbie grating against his ears. He feels a warm weight on his left shoulder which turns out to be a sleeping John. _Your face looks different when you sleep_. Sherlock shifts his arm, causing John to drawn in a long breath as he sits up in confusion.

 

“Wuz goin’ on? Oh.” John looks around. Sherlock looks out of the window at 221B, which has never looked more like home. Cold air rushes in as Sherlock opens the cab door, making him intensely grateful that Lestrade had forced him into his coat before he’d walked them out to the curb. Sherlock steps out, suddenly feeling a pounding behind his eyes, and stumbles over to sit on the steps to their door, rubbing his temples. _Never again. Never!_

 

“Oh God, my _head_. How can anyone stand to drink something that makes you feel this awful afterwards?” Sherlock groans a little, pressing his palms to his eyes. John giggles as he hands money through the window to the cabbie, and then walks to stand in front of Sherlock as the cabbie drives away. _John’s tolerance is superior to mine, in fact it looks as though the effects have nearly worn off entirely for him.  Must test his limits in a more controlled setting for further analysis._

 

“It’s a social norm. Alcohol has been an important part of nearly all cultu—“

 

“Yes, yes, John! I know! But _why?!_ The preliminary effects were mildly pleasant, but what would possibly induce people to subject themselves to such a level of the ghastly intoxicant to result in this bloody headache? My stomach feels like it wants to turn itself inside out. Maybe I should let it, since it would rid me of the rest of this disgusting poison.”

 

“Don’t be melodramatic. C’mon, up you get! Take a shower, and I’ll make us some tea.” Sherlock reluctantly stands, throwing out an arm to catch himself as he nearly loses his balance, grabbing John’s arm to steady himself.

 

“Never again, John. Never will you convince me to drink alcohol again. Ever.” Sherlock slowly takes the steps to the door, fumbling in his pocket for the key.

 

“Well, I’m not complaining. That’s one less thing I have to worry about keeping you off of. If only you were this passionate about not smoking, _then_ we’d have progress.” John leans against the door, stumbling over the threshold as the door opens, Sherlock still rummaging in his pockets. Sherlock looks up in confusion. _The door was closed and locked when we left._

 

“Sherlock, how many times have I told you to lock the bloody door? The thing wasn’t even latched properly!” John stands just inside the door, his head turned to the side in his frustration. Sherlock mumbles, going over the scene of him locking the door in his head. _Yes, I locked it. I’m sure of it._

 

“I locked it. I always do. Maybe Mrs. Hudson went to get some shopping and left it open, you know how forgetful she can get.” _Not entirely true. Not true. False entirely. I’d really prefer it if you weren’t angry with me right now._

 

“No, she’s not once forgotten to lock the door. I can’t–.” John stops, breathes in, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just get inside. I’m tired. My face and ribs hurt. Tea, telly, bed.”

 

Sherlock nods quickly, hanging his coat on the rack before moving up to the inner door, his current state allowing for John to reach the top of the stairs first, in spite of his limp.

 

“No hurry,” John mutters, smiling smugly as Sherlock finally mounts the landing.

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock growls before getting out the separate key for that door. He nudges a shoulder against John, grasping the handle as he moves to put the key in the lock—

 

The door swings open, the key still in hand, and the knob unturned. The central part of the deadbolt is skewed to the side. _The plug is turned. Someone’s broken in_. Sherlock goes back downstairs checking the other lock. _Turned as well. How did I not notice this? Alcohol: bad news for brainwork._

 

“Sherlock?” John is still at the top of the stairs, looking down in confusion. “Have we been robbed or something?”

 

Sherlock crosses to Mrs. Hudson’s door, knocking anxiously. _Not good. More than a bit not good._

 

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?” Sherlock’s pounding and voice echo strangely. He steps back when he hears the door unlock. _Deadbolt intact, maybe she’s fine._

 

“Sherlock, what’s all the fuss about? Is something the matter?” Sherlock looks her over quickly. _Healthy enough aside from a recent cold judging by the nasal voice, no signs of being held hostage or forced to answer the door with a calm façade._ He sighs out loud, leaning his forehead against the wall next to the open door. _Safe._

 

“You boys have been making an awful racket today, tromping about so early in the morning, and then making sounds like demolition crew, for Pete’s sake! You’ve better have left my walls alone, young man!” Mrs. Hudson’s motherly tone is ignored in favor of the content of her scolding.

 

“What? What do you mean? We left the house at 9, and we’re just getting back now. What time did you say you’d heard people upstairs?” The intensity of his gaze was causing Mrs. Hudson’s voice to falter.

 

“Well, I— I think it was…around noon-ish. It sounded like someone was renovating, you know, knocking down walls. Dear me, it wasn’t you? I should’ve gone up to check—.” Mrs. Hudson’s face crumples with dejection.

 

“Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson. It would have been foolish of you to attempt to wrangle unknown housebreakers. We’re just glad you’re safe. Calm yourself with some tea, it’ll do you good.” Sherlock bounds up the stairs, pushing past John into the flat. He stops directly inside the door, staring around. _Something’s different._ He cocks his head to the side as he steps further into the flat.

 

“Doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen, does it?” John is in the kitchen preparing their tea, calmly going about the routine. _Where is your sense of urgency? Always manage to surprise me._

 

“Stolen, no. Not as far as I can see.” _Something is off. Something small, nagging at the back of my mind. Pinpoint it! See the difference! OBSERVE._ It clicks.

 

“Oh,” he sighs breathily. _So subtle I might have missed it_. He approaches the mantle, feeling a sense of dread. The difference was only a few degrees, but the skull had most definitely been moved. _Deadbolts picked, nothing stolen._ He picks up the skull, rotating it before his eyes, looking for something. He stares at the pack of cigarettes that he’d stored there, an open secret. He tosses the skull onto the couch, plucking the pack up, flipping the crumpled top open. Amongst all of the remaining white circles presented by the filter ends is a singular dark circle, the tobacco facing outwards, contrasting sharply with its brothers. _No. No, no, no._

 

Sherlock’s stomach drops, the effect greatly enhanced by his pre-hangover state. _Please, no. Can’t be. Must be some other explanation._  He swallows down his panic, placing the pack and the skull back on the mantle before he rushes to his room, slamming the door behind him. His hands are shaking as he stands in the dark, his head pressed on his forearms which are against the door.

 

He hears John call his name, the blood rushing in his ears as he closes his eyes. _Shut it out. All of it. It doesn’t mean what you think it means. Stop jumping to conclusions without any evidence._ Images from his dream flash in his mind. _Red sky, red rain. Blood rain. John’s blood._ He cringes, burying his face against the fabric of his shirt sleeves, remembering the terrible sound that Dream-John had made as the life had been crushed out of him. The shaking that started in his hands has spread to the rest of his body, his heart beating in his throat. _Don’t be ridiculous. Dreams are only a plague for the weak minded. To be discounted immediately._

 

“Don’t be a fool,” he hisses angrily. He steps back from the door, gripping his upper arms, folding them defiantly against the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. The tightness of his grasp hurt, helping him stay grounded. His head pounds as he waits for his world to stop crashing down around him. He sits on the bed, the effort of standing upright with this burden becoming too much. Something rolls and hits his thigh as his weight creates a dip in the mattress. A shaking hand moves to grasp the object, eyes closed against the dark. Sherlock breathes out slowly, attempting to control the fluttering heart that quails in his breast. He holds the item in both hands. _A torch? What?_ He lets his hands drop into his lap, hunching his shoulders as he lets his fingers explore the surface of the plastic and glass.

 

A knock at the door nearly causes Sherlock to drop the torch to the ground, a gentle voice reaching his ears.

 

“Sherlock, your tea is on the counter. I’m headed upstairs for the night. Too tired for telly, but I’ll probably be awake for a bit longer if you need anything.” Sherlock doesn’t respond, the quiet breathing moving away from the door when he doesn’t say anything back. _Kind John. Thoughtful John. What’ve I gotten you into?_

 

With renewed self-loathing and a sickening anxiety, Sherlock pushes the sliding switch on the side of the torch, breathing out with finality, like pulling a trigger. He blinks vigorously against the sudden bluish glare that flared against the floor in front of him. _Black-light. Why? To reveal something previously hidden, you dolt._ He scolds himself, rolling his eyes at his own folly. _Something that wouldn’t be visible under normal light. Obviously. A message no doubt, from dearest Jim._ His fingers clench more tightly around the unyielding plastic. With ire in his soul, and defiance in his heart he stands in the center of the room, ignoring the ghostly glimmer of towels and paper scattered in the corners of his room, turning round, shining the light carefully across everything. _Did I miss it?_ The beam of light is aimed low. _Perhaps I should look a little higher?_ He swings the beam up, turning to the side as though aiming a gun.

_Good God._

 

The ethereal abomination hits his eyes like a speeding car. He stumbles back, hearing his breathing hiss in his throat as his back thuds against the wall, his eyes unable to blink, his hand trembling, the beam of light juddering; the image leaps and dips, the brightness leaving overlapping images branded into his eyes and his mind, increasing the obscenity two-fold. He slides down the wall, landing heavily on the floor, his expression frozen into a wide-eyed terror. His heart is beating like a jackrabbit’s, his chest heaving. A dry sob leaves him, unbidden. His tear ducts were thankfully unresponsive to the anguish bubbling over inside. He sits in the dark with the _thing_ on the wall, feeling as though it was making the room smaller, suffocating him.

 

A yell.The voice sounds frightened, angry. _JOHN._

 

“John!” Sherlock scrambles to his feet, flinging open his door, tripping on the third stair, grazing his shin, ignoring the pain that quickly turned to a numb heat. The black-light clatters backwards down the stairs, reaching the bottom just as Sherlock reaches the top.

 

A full mug of hot tea is broken on the landing, spreading towards where Sherlock plants his shoes, his hands latching on either side of the doorway as he stares in at John, who is standing in the center of what used to be his room. The Army Doctor is illuminated by the feeble light from the kitchen, and the glare of the streetlamps outside, the shadows unable to hide the damage. _Oh, John…_

 

Shards of wood from what had previously been John’s bed are littered everywhere, mixed in with pieces of glass, the remains of a lamp that had rested on a fragmented bedside table. Clumps of fabric are heaped an inch thick over the entire floor. John’s clothes are torn to shreds; his jumpers, his shirts, his pants, even his socks and underclothes. Springs and fluff from the mattress are scattered in chaotic little clots.

 

When John speaks his voice is quiet and confused.

 

“Everything, Sherlock. Not one thing made it through in one piece.” Sherlock can’t look up, can’t meet the gaze of the man whose life he’s ruining.

 

“I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock’s face betrays nothing as he gazes impassively, his eyes darting around the pigsty. _Empty words. There’s nothing that I can say to make this better. Nothing._

 

“Everything is gone! Everything! I can’t believe this.” Sherlock flinches internally with every muttered word. “There’s even a bloody note.” John’s voice falters, his hand covering his mouth as he surveys the wreckage, searching himself for something calm and stable. John’s hand drops to his side, his posture quickly turning from helpless to something more aggressive. “A bloody fucking note. I can’t _fucking_ believe this. Do something with this before I tear it to pieces!”

 

Sherlock manages to stand his ground as the blaze of anger that is John Watson stalks closer, brandishing a slip of paper like a sword. _2 forced locks, a mural, a smashed room, and now a note._ Somehow this didn’t improve the situation.

 

The paper was crushed into his hand as John grabs Sherlock’s arm, his temper causing his body to radiate heat into the air around him. The smaller man’s rage was evident in everything he did, his face scarlet, his jaw clenching, his fists opening and closing. _This is my fault._

 

The note is short, and surprisingly personal.

 

_ Sorry about the mess, mate. _

_ He’s in one of those moods. _

_ ~SM~ _

 

Sherlock studies the paper, the neat, thin military-style script. He starts when John lets out a cry of rage, kicking at the debris on the floor. _He needs to be alone for a while. So do I_. With a look of pity and guilt, Sherlock descends the stairs, throat tight. He was halfway through the doorway to his room when he remembered the monstrosity on his wall, causing him to backpedal quickly, finally seeking refuge in the stairwell in between 221B and the outside world. John’s exclamations quieted down to feeble pleading.

 

 _Can’t believe I’m doing this. He’ll be so cross with me. Nothing to be done about that. He’s always cross._ He gives a sad smirk to the emptiness in front of him, his eyes unfocused as he contemplates his next move _. He’ll think I’ve sent him away because he’s weak. Not weak. Never weak. Always the stronger of the two of us._

 

He pulls out his mobile, presses Speed-dial 2. When the call is finally answered, Sherlock hears nothing from upstairs. _This is sort of like the stages of grief, isn’t it? Disbelief, anger, acceptance, or some such?_

 

“Sherlock.” The suave voice sounds mildly annoyed. _I’ve interrupted something_. He grins in spite of himself at the idea.

 

“Mycroft,” he returns, his demeanor slipping back to stoic, but now there is a hint of wrath.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“We need to arrange for protection for John.” He clips the words out, as if he’ll be cut off by the older man.

 

“Doctor Watson won’t agree to this, you know. He seems very adamant about being able to take care of himself,” the voice chided. _You don’t think I know this?_

 

“He doesn’t have a choice. He needs to be put in a safe-house. It’s time to mobilize. The threats have been clear.” _More than clear. Remember the Pool? Were they not clear enough then?_

“You are sure? Perhaps you are taking things a little out of propor—.”

 

“Mycroft. You’ve got cameras watching every side of this bloody flat! You already know what’s happened. Stop playing coy.”

 

“My people may have seen something, yes. Action has been taken. While your visitors were inside, an agent of mine left a little something in the wheel well. Perhaps John already told you about the microchips? Nifty little things, aren’t they? Undetectable except for when you’re looking directly at one with your naked eyes. Even then, they could pass for flakes of paint, or pieces of broken graphite from a pencil. That’s dependent upon the model, but I’m sure you get the idea.”

 

“Of course, dear brother. It’s only to be expected that you’d choose the most useless and passive aggressive course of action. John and I already know where he is. In fact, it’s been just over a day since I was kidnapped and held at his flat. Where were you then? You let John go alone to try and rescue me. Ever lazy, aren’t you? He was injured getting me out of there. You could have prevented that.” Sherlock’s voice, while still brutally civil in the most demeaning manner, had an edge to it.

“Mm, yes. How is the good doctor? I don’t supposed you’ll appreciate that I pulled a few strings with his prescription, ensuring that he got, hmhm, the ‘good stuff’. How do you know that Moriarty hasn’t fled?”

 

“John hasn’t filled the prescription yet. We were busy.”

 

“Busy, yes. That’s definitely what I’d call busy. Fraternizing with the commonwealth, watching sports. Did you enjoy the alcohol? Thought not.” Sherlock grits his teeth at this, deciding to ignore the jab.

 

“—and I know he hasn’t fled. I know him. He’s too comfortable and too sure of himself to flee.”

 

“But dearest baby brother, this is what got you into this mess in the first place. Your assumption that you know Moriarty. I assure you that he is as unpredictable as he is insane. You’d do best to put a little more faith in me when I tell you these things.”

 

“And you’d do best to give me reason to have faith in you,” Sherlock growls.

 

“It appears that we’ve gotten off topic. As to your request at the beginning of our…little chat. I’ve already sent my assistant to take care of arranging protection for John. I’ve also alerted the captains of my team to prepare to move out. Will that be all, or have you another whim?”

 

“No. Nothing more.” _The sooner this call is over, the better._

 

“My, my. The little favors I’ve given you are adding up. You owe me, Sherlock.”

 

“So I’m aware.” Sherlock ends the call, feeling silence engulf him once more.

 


	10. Seb

**∞∞∞**

Exactly 5 Years Ago

The 4th of March

 

Sebastian lounges, something he hasn’t had the luxury to do since before he went to war. He’s got time, time enough to relax before he needs to get ready for his next hit. 3 days to be exact.

 

The hotel is nice, clean sheets, soft bed, room service.  The first 5 months after he was Dishonorably Discharged were spent raging around Afghanistan (not recommended), after which he returned to London a bitter and essentially homeless man. It had taken nearly a year of living in squalor after being discharged before he finally returned to his natural talent. Killing people. That’s where the money was. Dealing death and getting paid. It was a simple life and suited him just fine. No more hunger, no more freezing nights spent in damp alleyways.

 

Barely 2 years had passed since the day that he’d accepted his first official job, and since that day, things had only gotten better. By the end of the first month he’d completed 3 hits and already had enough money to move into a small one bedroom flat. By the end of the year he had small, discreet flats all over London to lay low in after a hit. Things were definitely looking up. He had enough of a reputation by now that he could choose which jobs he took, with hits lined up months in advance. _It’s like I’m a bloody 5 star restaurant_ , he’d thought at the time.

 

He glances at the file on his lap that he’d been perusing, a hand running through his hair. Typical, really. The man who was paying him for this upcoming job was the usual business-man-turned-criminal looking to knock off the competition. This “Mr. Meyers” would be paying him a considerably larger amount of money than normal due to the relatively high-profile of the target. His victim was a well-known physicist and author of several books on the topic, aside from being an admired philanthropist, donating huge sums of money through different companies to charities, etc. _How does someone like that get on the (s)hit-list of someone like Meyers? Well, no one that good really exists. They’re undoubtedly scum as well, but they just put up a better front._

 

He sighs, shaking his head as he stands, stretching. While lounging was nice, Sebastian had always preferred to be on the move, hence the hotel. It made things feel more…hands-on _? Nah, it’s just nice to get out of the usual routine. Mix things up a bit._

 

He pulls on his plain leather jacket, grabbing his wallet and gun, tucking one into his pocket, and the other into the back of his trousers.  He snatches his room key off of a side-table, heading out of the door and down the long, thickly-carpeted hallway. He takes the elevator down, cringing internally at the tuneless lounge music that plays over the speaker. _Who was the dimwit that decided that this was the proper music for a goddamn elevator? Why can’t we just enjoy some fucking silence?_ In the shiny metal of the doors he can see himself foggily. Blond hair, jeans, a black t-shirt, and the old leather jacket to top it all off. Despite the money that he was raking in, he preferred to dress simply, never having had a particular love for fashion or expense. He thought spending frivolous amounts of money on clothing was just that: frivolous, ridiculous, unnecessary. If it didn’t have a giant hole torn in it, he’d continue to wear it.

 

The elevator dings, and the door opens. The woman at the front desk turns her sullen eyes on Seb, appraising him as he walks by. _In your dreams. No, hell no. Not even then, lady._ He strides out into the cool night air, feeling it whip his hair around as he scowls lightly at the people and cabs that clog the streets. Seb considers himself to be a practical man, avoiding the pointless and boring things that city life entails, but there is one exception. Seb appreciates a good pub. While he was in Afghanistan that was what he’d missed most about London. Amongst all of the dust and heat, there wasn’t a proper pub to be found.

 

The nearest pub to his hotel was The Lion’s Den, a ramshackle little place with dirty windows and good food. He walks there, fully intending to drink the night away. The evening is young, and Seb seats himself at one of the booths that’s against the front window. He settles back, downing his first two lagers quickly, motioning to the bartender for more. _This’ll be nice. About time I get to relax._

 

Hours pass as he sits in his booth, entirely ignored by everyone else in the pub, his drink tab getting pricier as the night went on. He feels himself becoming at ease, enjoying the buzz that is making his senses dull, giving him a pleasant buffer between himself and the world. Everything is slightly muffled and muted, and it’s an almost unbearable relief to not have to try and interpret the drunken slurring going on around him.

 

He feels someone sit in the booth next to him, and glances over. A small and unassuming man with a cap on and a large jacket is quietly drums his fingers on the table. Before he can tell him to piss off, the small man says something that takes Seb completely by inebriated surprise.

 

“I understand that you were paid to kill me. I’m here to make you a proposition. I’ll pay you double to go back to your employer tomorrow and shove this letter opener into his neck. His people will know what it means…Goodbye for now, Sebastian. I expect we’ll be seeing each other quite soon.”

 

The small man stands and walks away from Seb, leaving a gleaming letter opener and a packet on the table, and Seb at a loss for words. He hadn't been able to catch much of a description of the man, aside from his general height and weight-class. The voice had sounded Irish, but rather weird. _That seems familiar. Short. Thin. Irish. SHIT._ He’d just been approached by his target. He hurriedly looks around, seeing if the man has already left, finding no trace.  
  
  


He examines the letter opener, admiring its potential lethality, and then the packet. He tears open one end of the manila paper, glancing inside. Money. More than double what his employer had offered. And a note. _Well, color me mind-fucked._  
  
  


**Be a dear, Sebastian, and look out the window to your left. You'll see a devilishly handsome fellow in a suit standing across the street. That'd be me. You already know my proposition, but I've heard of your reputation and would like to offer you more...permanent...employment. Take it. Don't take it. Either is fine, so long as you're not boring about it. If you decide not to accept my offer, I'll be sitting at a cafe table at Rubio’s 3 days from now, wearing a red tie and a black suit. Kill me if you wish, but make it interesting. I plan on hearing from you. I've left you something in your hotel room. Consider it a "Welcome to the Team" present.  
-J. Moriarty-  
  
**

Seb looks up again, but the man is gone, leaving him feeling rather dazed. _What in the sweet fuck just happened?_ _"Left you something in your hotel room"..._ Seb jumps up, running once he gets outside the door, the distance to his hotel never feeling longer.   
  
  


Upon reaching his door, he pauses outside with his gun at the ready, listening. Nothing. He uses the key to turn the lock, opening the door silently. He enters the room at a crouch, his gun preceding him as he slowly makes his way inside. The room should have been dark, but he finds that the bedside lamp has already been turned on, its light flooding over something long and dark on the bed. His hands tighten on his gun as he walks into each room slowly in his gunman’s stance, his ears listening for the slightest sound of feet on carpet, or the click of a gun. Main bedroom: nothing. Bathroom: nothing. Balcony: nothing again.

 

He approaches the bed and stares, dumbfounded.  _A_ _suit? A bloody expensive one at that._ He picks open the black jacket, finding a dark grey button up underneath. The black slacks seem like they would be a bit form fitting, but that was the style now-a-days. Tucked into the inside pocket was another note.  
  
  


**Try it on. It's a guaranteed fit. You can keep it even if you don't decide to work for me. Better yet, wear it while you kill me, if that's what you want. It was tailor-made, damned expensive, and the style was chosen just for you. Choices, choices, choices. If you decide that you want to learn a little more about what our potential partnership would entail, leave a note with the word "Yes" on it with the frumpy woman at the front desk. It'll find its way to me.  
-J. Moriarty-**   
  


Seb can't help but be fascinated. He rereads the note, looking at the suit, and crosses to the window, peeking out into the dark. _This seems promising...._

 

**∞∞∞**

Present

The 4th of March

12 Am

Seb is startled awake by the sound of his mobile going off in the living room. No doubt it had slipped out of his pocket during his little scuffle with Jim when the tiny man had tackled him to the floor. _Jim._ Seb looks over at the outline of his crime lord, the gentle rise and fall of Jim’s breathing creating the smallest noise against the silence, the only sign that the man was alive against the relative still. The tie is no longer around Seb’s neck, having been lost amongst the folds of the sheets. The phone goes off again, causing Seb to swear under his breath as he rolls out of the warmth of the bed. _Shitting hell, it’s chilly_. He makes a detour to his stash of clothing, putting on clean boxers and pajamas before hunting for his phone. The living room is pitch black except for a small glow coming from under the charred couch. _Bugger_. He kneels, leaning to reach for his phone, the brightness of its lit screen blinding him for a moment. He blinks the tracers from his eyes, reading the alert.

 

**_The day things changed._ **

 

He smiles at the words, the sleep clearing from his mind as it dawns on him. It’s the anniversary of the day that he met Jim. He’d forgotten. He erases the alert from his phone _. Best not to let Jim think I’m being sentimental._ He sets his mobile down on the coffee table, turning away. His phone goes off again. This time it’s a text.

 

**_Get back in bed, you dolt. I’m cold._ **

**_-JM_ **

 

A smirk creeps onto Sebastian’s face as he tosses his phone onto the blackened couch, making his way back to Jim. He approaches the bed, shifting back the sheets on his side. Jim turns over and pouts, his hair mussed and his eyes half open. Seb resists the urge to laugh. _Bed head looking great, boss._

 

“And what were you up to at this time of night? You abandoned me to freeze in my own bed!” Jim props himself up on an elbow, yawning.

 

“Just checking my phone. Hmm, maybe you should do the messy, bed head look more often. Looks good on you.” Jim makes a small noise of assent. Seb lifts his eyebrow as Jim stretches exaggeratedly, extending an arm and a leg across the center of the bed, encroaching on Sebastian’s side. _Cheeky little prat._

 

“Everything looks good on me.” Jim turns his head away, yawning again. The smaller man’s arm still rests where Seb’s shoulders would be. _It’s not as if he’s going to make this easy_. Seb lies down smugly on Jim’s arm, his bare back feeling the thin length of the bony forearm flex as Jim roll sideways towards Seb, leaning his head against the sniper’s shoulder. _No wonder everyone assumes we’re fucking. You don’t really give anyone anything to prove otherwise, now do you Jim? You probably enjoy how annoyed I am by that._ Jim sighs against Seb’s shoulder, humming under his breath as he traces circles on Seb’s chest with his free hand.

 

“Jim?” Seb’s voice is low.

 

“Hmm,” Jim purrs, his chest thrumming with the sound.

 

“What are we? Us, I mean. You’re my boss, and my friend when you want to be. And now we’re…cuddling.” Seb struggles with his thoughts. _Where am I going with this? I should’ve stayed quiet, this’ll totally ruin whatever dynamic we had going. Shit fuck._

 

Jim hand goes still for a moment before he resumes his tracing.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim mumbles quietly, sounding slightly angry. _I’m sorry I asked._

 

“No…you’re right.” Seb turns his face in the dark, his chin brushing against Jim’s forehead, where he settles. _It shouldn’t matter, really. It doesn’t._

 

Jim mutters something, his fingers drumming; pinky first, ring finger, middle finger, pointer, and then thumb. Over and over, the peristaltic rhythm hypnotizing Sebastian.

 

“It’s such a common thing to do, Seb…so boring and tedious. Leave it to the peasants, pet. Let them categorize. Let them separate everyone and everything into its own little hell. Compartmentalizing and drawing lines as if it’ll change anything. Nothing really matters, Seb. Remember that.” Seb looks down at the line where the black of Jim’s hair meets the ivory of his flesh, saddened. “We’re above all that, you and I. Beyond it. So far beyond anything the generic drones of humanity can comprehend.”

 

Seb can tell that Jim is staring off intensely into the darkness, the fervor of his thoughts trapped in that brilliant head. _This is one of those times when I wish I could just switch off your intelligence, since it seems to hurt you more than anything._ Seb reaches a hand over, pushing the hair back off Jim’s forehead, hoping to soothe, afraid to enrage.

 

Jim is still, as if quietly stunned by Seb’s act of affection. Seb feels Jim grappling internally with the urge to break Seb’s hand or to allow the contact. _Either way, I’ll still be here._

 

“Only you, Seb.” Jim relaxes into the touch, his eyelids finally sliding shut over his dark eyes.

 

Seb stares into the dark, cradling his crime lord’s skull, recognizing it as the source of illumination that had shown him the true face of humanity; blank-faced like sheep, their eyes sightless, turned blind by the desecration of their natures at birth, fit only for slaughter.

 

Jim sleeps, the tension lingering in his limbs before his body finally softens. _Only you, Jim. You poor fucking bastard._ Seb lets out a sigh that stirs the air, the deflation of his lungs causing Jim’s head to lose contact with Seb’s chin momentarily.

 

“Happy anniversary, Boss.” Seb’s consciousness fades to a fuzzy black as sleep lays hold to his mind.

 

Seb wakes up to light shining on his face from the window and electro-swing playing from the stereo system in the living room. _Jim’s up then…I’d better get up before he lights something on fire again._

 

He makes his way to the kitchen, finding an insane amount of sliced fruit on a platter (a result of Jim’s eccentric tastes), along with a pot of coffee. _Guess that means no sausage…_ Seb plucks an apple slice off the top, making his way to the living room where Jim is lying on a new couch, having replaced the charred one during the few hours that he was awake before Seb. _The power of Jim Moriarty’s criminal web being used to its most dire purpose: furniture delivery. Bravo, boys._

 

“Well holy hell, I see you’ve gotten me a new couch to sleep on. Did I snore loud enough to induce such prompt replacement?”

 

Jim smiles, his eyes closed as he bobs a leg off the side of the couch to the beat of the music.

 

“Sebastian, you don’t snore, you kick like a bloody mule. Nearly fell off the fucking bed because of you.” Jim sits up, placing a heel on the floor that he continued to thump to the beat.

 

“Shame. It would’ve been funnier if you had.” Seb dodges the playful punch that Jim had aimed at his stomach, flicking Jim’s forehead hard enough in retaliation to leave a red mark.

 

“Ouch, you fucking prick.” Jim cups a hand to his forehead, lying back on the couch again, looking like a swooning maiden. _He seems happy enough. Looks like last night’s been forgotten, for now._

 

“What’re we doing today, Jim? Anything interesting?” He ignores Jim’s grumbling about internal hemorrhaging, sitting on the arm of the new couch.

 

“We’re going to head in to the office today, just to check up on a few things I’ve got going.”

 

“Sounds simple enough.” Seb moves off into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. Jim limps in after him. “How’s the ankle?”

 

“Shit, so I took a few of the pills I gave you, and now I can’t feel anything.” Jim sits at the counter, twisting from side to side on the rotating stool, looking like a child.

 

“Sebby.”

 

“What?”

 

“I know what day it is.” Jim’s voice is smug, his eyes lit with mischief.

 

“Congratulations? I guess? It’s Sunday, so yeah. I don’t see your point, though.”

 

“Not that, you moldy twat. It’s the 5 year anniversary of us meeting.”

 

Seb is shocked. He waits for Jim to say more, but Jim stares at him expectantly.

 

“Been keeping track, Jim? Seems a bit…thoughtful. You don’t do thoughtful.” It was the truth. Never had Jim ever acted as if he had any inkling of the significance of the 4th of March during the previous 4 years. _What’s brought this on?_

 

“Oh Sebby, don’t underestimate me. Today we’re doing something special.”

 

Seb tries to drown the pathetic warmth that floods his chest. _You idiot, don’t get all giddy over this. No doubt it’ll be something business related._ Despite his best efforts, Seb cracks a smile, feeling it turn into a grin as Jim responds with a small upwards curving of his lips. _I’ve got mixed feelings about today…_

 


	11. John

Mycroft Holmes sits in front of this plate, his hands steepled against his mouth, lost in thought. The last of the pastry that he had consumed with his breakfast sits forlornly upon the china plate, abandoned to the open air that bleeds the moisture from its porous surface. On any regular day, the abandonment of baked goods would be blasphemy. Today is not a regular day, even by his standards.

 

With a languid motion he pulls his mobile out of the pocket of his trousers. The plastic case is warm from the contact with his thigh as he prepares to thumb out a text. As much as he dislikes texting, he recognizes the importance of keeping this correspondence as far from Doctor Watson’s eyes and ears as possible. _Best to get this over with._

**_Shall I send a car to pick him up_ **

**_sometime after lunch?_ **

**_-MH_ **

 

The response comes within seconds of Mycroft setting his phone on the table.

 

**_Sooner if possible._ **

**_-SH_ **

 

Before he has a chance to respond another text is received.

 

**_He will resist. He’s not to be_ **

**_harmed._ **

**_-SH_ **

 

Mycroft  sighs regretfully at the message. _What can I possibly do to show that your happiness, and by extension Doctor Watson’s, are important to me? I will do whatever is within my power to ensure his continued existence. If it requires tranquilizers, well, that’s a mere technicality._

 

**_I will send my assistant and_ **

**_two of my agents. They will_ **

**_do what is necessary._ **

**_-MH_ **

****

Mycroft stares at his phone, knowing his brother’s response will be lightning fast. _Maybe I shouldn’t have added that last bit._ He shrugs to himself. _I could never resist riling him._

 

**_I will determine what is_ **

**_necessary._ **

**_-SH_ **

 

With a small nod he lets Sherlock have the last word. _It wouldn’t do to waste more time_. His assistant should be able to handle the situation with a minimal application of force. Watson seemed to have taken a liking to her during their previous encounters. He makes the call.

 

She is holding her phone in her left hand as she makes herself tea in the kitchen of the office building when it rings. A quick glance at the caller ID. She picks up.

 

“Yes, sir?” She’s been waiting for this call. The safe-house has been fully stocked and guarded since earlier this morning, and it was only missing the presence of their guest.

 

“My dear, I’ve something I need you to attend to.” His voice is weary. _It always is, at least when his brother’s involved._

 

“Of course, sir.” She grasps the phone tightly, listening intently.

 

“221 B. Take a car there. It’s time to collect Doctor Watson. No doubt he will resist, so I will be sending two other agents with you. It’s important that he be escorted to the safe-house as quickly as possible, with as little fuss as possible. Take him to the base, and transfer him to the safe-house once you are sure that he hasn't been tracked. I trust you will take care of this…”

 

“Yes, sir. I’ll head out now.” She ends the call, slipping her mobile into the pocket on her blouse. She’s glad that she was making her tea in a thermos as she screws on the cap, briskly walking towards the parking garage. The sound of the door to the garage closing echoes loudly as she steps up to a black car with tinted windows that is waiting there. She slips into the back seat, once again pulling out her phone as she sips her tea. _Might as well get some work done on the way there_.

 

The car pulls away silently.

 

The car ride was long enough for her to get a considerable amount of work done, her tea long since finished, the thermos resting against her thigh as she stares out the window. The last leg of the journey is spent watching emails pile up in her Blackberry’s inbox. _I’ll get to those later. Here we are…prepare yourself for a scene, gorgeous._

 

Baker Street. The car pulls up to the curb silently and she opens the door, smoothing her clothing before approaching the steps up to the door. She stands on the porch, sending off a text.

 

**_It’s time._ **

 

Despite her phone’s lack of signature and blocked number, she gets a text back quickly.

 

**_We’re ready._ **

**_-SH_ **

****

She passes through the inner door, looking back at the car, giving the two agents a nod. _Hopefully they won’t be necessary. It’s too early in the morning for me to be dealing with two grown men having a domestic._

 

Her shoes clack slightly on the aged stairs as she reaches the landing, lightly knocking on the door. It opens immediately, the pale and rather drawn face of her employer’s brother glaring slightly as he steps aside. _Well, you definitely look like shit._ She goes over what she was told about the events of last night. _A break-in, destruction, the urgent need for someone to swoop in and take the Doctor away someplace safer._

 

“Shall I talk to him? Or you?” She attempts to keep her voice neutral, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

 

He stalks away from her without answering, his shoulders hunching as he makes his way towards a small room near the bottom of the stairs. He returns with clothing in his arms, a shirt, a pair of pants, a pair of boxers judging by the pattern, a pair of socks, and slightly baggy black-and-white jumper. She raises an eyebrow at his back as he makes his way upstairs. She hears the sound of a door opening, the sounds of a shower reaching her ears. She hears the man’s baritone say something and then the water turns off. Muffled conversation. He comes back down, gliding past her, seating himself in an armchair near the empty fireplace, slouching down in the seat with his legs splayed out in front of him and his elbows resting on the armrests, his hands steepled under his chin.

 

She sighs quietly. She’d learned long ago to ignore his moods, having dealt with him in years past. She’d seen him in the throes of overdoses, in the rage of withdrawals, in the lethargy of genius. This time something struck her as different. This wasn’t quite like anything she’d witnessed of him before…he looks as though he’s trying to hide himself from view by sinking below the edges of the armrests, fearing reproach or disappointment. Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock draws one leg in, balancing it on the toe of his shoe, nervously waggling his heel from side-to-side. _The things this man is doing to you. I still haven’t decided if he’s good for you or not. Cowering, it’s not a good look._

 

Doctor Watson is dressed in the clothes that she saw Sherlock take up as he comes downstairs, his limp slightly noticeable as he makes his way to the chair opposite the taller man, staring at the detective’s averted face. Watson turns his flinty gaze on her, and she represses a slight prickle of discomfort.

 

“Come along, Doctor Watson. We’ve a car waiting.” _There. Polite enough._

 

“What’s this about?” His tone is slightly biting. _Rude right off the bat? Someone’s definitely had a bad night._

 

“You need to come with me. Just for a bit.” _This is going to go to utter shit, isn’t it? I can tell._

 

“Sherlock, what’s she on about?” _Time to switch gears a bit._

 

“Mr. Holmes requests your presence and figured he’d arrange for your transportation.” She hitches a smile onto her face.

 

“Figured, did he? Well, tell him to piss off, from me.” Her faux graciousness finally slips.

 

“You can tell him yourself. You can either get in the car, or we’ll make you.” Calling her colleagues in is a more than tempting idea.

 

“This is bollocks. Tell your brother to back off, will you? Sherlock?” John looks to Sherlock, who continues to deny his own existence for the entire conversation.  _Oh, this’ll be good._

 

“Sherlock… did you set this up? You can tell me, I’m a big boy. One trashed room and you’re sending me away like a frightened child? Was I supposed to be afraid? Because I’m not. I’m angry as hell, and there is no way that you’re just going to-“

 

“John, this has nothing to do with you being afraid.” _I wish I’d brought crisps. This is like a soap opera._

 

“Too right, it doesn’t. Moriarty-“

 

“Moriarty is targeting you, John. He made that very clear. You’re room wasn’t the only thing that was left behind to say so.”

 

“Show me.”

 

She watches as Sherlock stands reluctantly, slowly walking towards his room, John standing to follow close behind. They close the door. A faint light floods under the gap. A long moment of silence. The light goes off. More muffled conversation that sounds like pleading. When both men exit the room their faces are pale.

 

“How long?” John’s voice is quiet, without any hint of menace, but his expression destroys the effect. His stubborn attitude has all but crumpled.

 

“How long what, Doctor Watson?” She knows what he means, but feels it’s necessary to facilitate a more outright conversation.

 

“If I go with you, how long will I be held?” She feels a small niggling of respect for this man, admiring his ability to stay afloat in the raging Sea of Holmes, just as she can. _There’s no fooling you, now is there,_ she thinks with only the smallest touch of sarcasm.

 

“You’re not being held.” _A lie_ , she thinks, but knows that it is in everyone’s best interest to maintain that gentle fiction of choice.

 

“Will I be allowed to leave?” _So wonderfully to the point._

 

“Once it’s safe.” The vagueness of this response sends a ripple of mild distress down her back at the twist of the Doctor’s face.

 

“That could take years…,” he returns accusingly. A creeping sympathy is taking residence in her usually chilly heart. _No wonder they’ve both taken a liking to you. You know just how to get under their armor, and right to the core of whatever humanity they have._

 

“Could be.” She tries to offer something like a comforting smile, feeling its uselessness as he stares into her face with an openly fed-up look. He sighs, pensively eyeing the detective who looks away intently, avoiding the gaze of the man who got past his outer shell and made him feel relatively human again. _It must hurt, sending him away. The fact that you care is killing you._

 

John passes a hand over his face. _Since when did he become John to me?_

 

“When d’you want to leave?” He sounds resigned and tired.

 

“Now would be preferable.” Technically they were meant to leave 6 minutes ago, but if things would go more smoothly by easing into this, then it was necessary.

 

“I’ve nothing to bring with me.” He states this coldly, his eyes seeming to cloud.

 

“It’s been taken care of.” She is standing near the door, trying to hurry things along with a subtle nudge in the right direction.

 

John nods, his lips pursing in a way that says _Of course it has._ He picks up his shoes, returning to the chair to slip his feet in and do up the laces. He stands again, this time stopping next to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder, staring down at him until the detective meets his eyes. He squeezes the shoulder, hand lingering as he speaks.

 

“I’ll forgive you for this eventually.” John continues to touch the man in the chair. She watches Sherlock glance up briefly, a brittle attempt at a smile presenting itself as a minute twitching at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Shall we?” With a falsely cheerful smile John gestures towards the door.

\----

John watches her as she exits the flat, hears her shoes against the stairs. He starts towards the threshold slowly, his feet dragging. He stops dead in the doorway, every fiber of his being pulling in the opposite direction. _Jesus, Sherlock, how can I just walk away? This is sodding ridiculous. We should be dealing with this together._

 

John closes his eyes, feeling them sting with frustration and helplessness. He looks back at Sherlock who’s watching him. With a near-silent huff of laughter, John looks at the coat rack near the door, snatching Sherlock’s scarf, the one with the stripes of lighter blue, off of it with a flourish. _If I’m leaving, I’m bloody well taking something of yours with me._

 

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow, a small but genuine smile passing over his features as John winds the scarf about his neck.

 

“If I’m to be tucked away, I expect regular visits. At least once a week. Understood?” John’s voice is firm. _If I’m giving myself over, Sherlock, you’d better make it worth it. Don’t forget about me now that you’re on the chase. Don’t be a prat and get yourself killed, either._

 

“Understood,” Sherlock replies, his baritone carrying despite the quietness of his words. John nods, steeling himself.

 

“Right…um…see you later, then?” The scarf is warm, giving him strength. His distress is quieted some by being able to take something of the detective with him.

 

“Of course, John. See you.” John sighs at the toneless reply, finally daring to move towards the door. He continues down the stairs before he can change his mind, hands clenching in his pockets. _He wouldn’t be doing this unless he thought it was absolutely necessary. He hates having his brother involved so it must be serious. Oh god, why did I have to yell at him last night? It wasn’t his fault, but he thinks it is, but it wasn’t, it’s not, he just needs to let me stay, I can prove that I can take care of myself, I don’t blame him for anything, I never could, I can’t believe he’s making me leave, how can he do that, he needs me, who’ll tell him to eat, who’ll tell him to sleep?_

 

He stops this train wreck of thought as he finds himself standing next to the car that will take him far away from home. He pulls open the door, flexing one fist before finally crouching to climb into the back seat. He sees her sitting with her Blackberry inches from her face on the far side. He gets in, noticing her eyeing the scarf momentarily before going back to her mobile.

 

“Just like last time, then?” John keeps his tone civil, his weariness betraying itself. He feels only temporarily guilty for being rude to her.

 

“Last time?” The fact that she dismissed their previous encounters is more than a tad annoying. He frowns at her as he settles himself back into the comfortable leather seat.

 

“No point in asking where we’re headed, and all that?” His tone is more clipped this time as he buckles himself in, the car already moving.

 

“Exactly.” _No point in turning to you for casual conversation, either. Of all the names to pick when giving a false one, you settled on Anthea? Anthea it is, then._

 

With a last look at Anthea, John leans against the window, entirely abandoning the idea of trying to figure out where they were heading. He closes his eyes against the sight of all that is familiar slipping away, his jaw clenching as he exhales slowly through his nose. He tries to center himself, finding a knot in his stomach that continues to tighten.

 

Earlier that morning

 

John is slowly waking up, becoming aware of the pain radiating from his body, the dull ache that comes from sleeping on a sofa. He’s tangled in a blanket, a warm blanket that smells familiar and good and comforting and perfect. He shifts, pulling the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, bringing it up to his face so that he can breathe in the scent, drowsing in the warmth. He opens his eyes, letting the blur of sleep fade as he blinks, yawning. _Blue. Blue? This is Sherlock’s blanket…_

 

He recalls raving for about an hour before collapsing onto the couch, ignoring Sherlock’s offers of tea or food, letting himself shut out the world in the haze of sleep. _He must’ve put this on me._ John notices that his shoes have been removed, not bothering to find out where they’ve been relocated as he attempts to resign himself to wakefulness.

 

With a stretch John sits up, feeling stale and disheveled, having slept in his clothes. He rubs his eyes with his palms, gazing around the early morning dimness of 221B, his eyes settling on the svelte form of Sherlock asleep in his armchair. The detective’s knees are tucked to his chest, one hand curled in his lap, the other dangling off the arm of the chair, casting a spidery shadow across the floor. John takes in a sight that is most certainly a rarity. _Sherlock sleeping_. Seeing the body of the detective in this completely relaxed state brings a small smile to John’s face, Sherlock’s buzz of impatience and boredom forgotten for the moment. The rise and fall of the man’s chest is steady and unhurried, and John finds himself syncing his own breathing without conscious thought, yet he’s nearly aware of wanting to.

 

John’s mind pulls back from his state of suspended calm, allowing him to rise to his feet, the blanket in his hands as he quietly creeps over, draping the blanket around the angular form of his friend. John resists the urge to brush a curl away from Sherlock’s forehead, settling instead for taking out his mobile and snapping a picture, catching all of the shadowing and contrast of the spectacle. _Blue against black against white_. John manages to hold back his glee at the thought of Sherlock discovering that he’d been caught sleeping. _Oh, he’ll never live this down._

 

John shuffles into the kitchen, making sure to send the picture to his email as well as saving it to his memory card, just in case Sherlock decides to get clever(er) and steal John’s phone to destroy the evidence. _I should get it printed and framed_ , he jokes to himself. With quiet movements and deft hands, John makes himself a cup of tea, settling back onto the couch as he waits for it to steep, his eyes memorizing the peace and restfulness as if he’ll never witness such things on the face of his flatmate again.

 

Pondering over his tea, John stares off into space, his thoughts turning automatically to the destruction upstairs. His stomach had dropped as soon as he’d noticed the post-it note stuck to the outside of the door, which he snatched down. Muttering various curses and prayers he’d flung the door open, struck dumb as he saw all of his possessions broken and littering the floor. He’d wandered into the midst of it, his mind unwilling to comprehend that the rubbish heap all around him had once been anything recognizable of his. It had finally hit him like an avalanche, and the only thing for it was to yell in rage and misery. _Everything. Everything gone._

 

The heat from the mug is lulling him, its steam refreshing against his own feeling of dissatisfaction and shame. He’s angry for losing himself over his possessions. One thing that he’d brought with him from the Army was the ability to make do with the things salvaged from the wreckage, not taking the time to pause and wonder why. Moving on. Moving forward, past the loss. _So much for that…_

 

His uncharacteristic brooding is interrupted by the sound of Sherlock’s phone going off, causing him to nearly spill his tea, and causing Sherlock to jolt awake with something akin to a snort that left John biting his cheek as he quashes his laughter with a look of exaggerated surprise. Just like that, the shadowy feeling is buried. Sherlock digs into the pocket of his trousers, his eyes unfocused and suspicious as he glances over at John, no doubt spying the laughter in his eyes. _Morning, sunshine._

 

Sherlock’s face darkens as he reads the text, responding rapidly. He looks up at John through his fringe before sending another text immediately afterwards. John is still as he watches, his lightened mood fading as the text chime sounds again. Another lightning fast response. Sherlock stands, staring confusedly at the blanket that tumbles to the floor at his feet, running a hand distractedly through his hair. He gestures towards John. _This can’t be good._

 

“Erm…you might want to shower. We’re going somewhere. Our ride will be here shortly.” He speaks quickly, trying to avoid questions.

 

“Ok…where are we going?” Rather than flat out refusing to go anywhere this early in the morning, John tries to sound open to the idea. _I’m sorry for being angry._

 

“It’s a surprise,” murmurs Sherlock airily, a fake smile plastering onto his face as he moves things around, looking for who knows what.

 

John looks down at his tea, pursing his lips, deciding to comment no further. _Right_. John pushes himself to his feet, walking past Sherlock who’s still rifling through the miscellaneous objects on their coffee table. He chugs his tea, setting the mug in the sink and throwing the teabag into the bin.

 

The stairs are a challenge, his leg still misbehaving as he puts his weight on it. With a hand on the banister for support he reaches the landing, purposefully looking straight ahead, rather than letting his eyes wander to the door to his bedroom, the plain wood hiding the havoc within. Once in his bathroom John removes his shirt, twisting to see the progress of the bruises. _It’s only been about 2 days since I got them, and they’ll only get worse over the next week. Damn, I still haven’t filled that prescription_.

 

John strips down the rest of the way, stepping into the shower, pulling the curtain closed as he reaches to turn on the water. He dials the knob to full, the scalding water easing the tension in his body as he stands under the stream. Just stands. The steam and the rhythmic pounding against his flesh sooth the stress from him as he hums a long drawn out note, his eyes closed as it reverberates in his chest. John thinks he hears Sherlock from outside the bathroom, but dismisses it as the detective taking a call, deciding he wasn’t even sure he heard it since the water is thundering on his skull, drowning out all else, allowing himself to be further enveloped in the haze of comfort. Time passes.

 

“John? It’s time to go.” Sherlock’s voice is coming from directly outside the shower curtain, and John does his best to recover from being startled out of his stupor. _Oh, Christ._

 

He reaches down to turn the water off as a towel is slung over the top of the shower curtain rail. He hurriedly grabs it, wrapping it around his waist before glancing around the curtain.

 

“Sherlock…I need to get out. D’you mind?” John hears a huff of impatience. When he pushes the shower curtain back Sherlock is standing near the door, facing the corner, one hand covering his eyes in an exaggerated display of giving privacy, and the other hand resting on his hip. _Well, he never really understood the nuances of privacy_. John looks to the floor, noticing that his clothes aren’t where he left them.

 

“The counter, John.” John finds his clothes clean, dry, and folded. He’s quietly shocked and more than a little touched at the gesture, marveling that his clothes appear to be intact rather than covered in burns. _I can hardly ever get him to do his own laundry. Is he testing a new chemical found in detergent or something? There’s got to be a catch, a reason…_

 

“Sherlock, thanks.” He tries to convey his apology and his gratitude in those two words as he pulls on his boxers and trousers.

 

“Get dressed quickly. We’ve no time to waste.” John frowns at the brisk tone.

 

“What’s going on, Sherlock? Where’re we going?” He pulls his shirt on over his head.

 

“You’ll see.” Sherlock turns around, his hands dropping to his sides with something like finality.

 

John sits on the edge of the tub, his socks in his hands as he stares up into Sherlock’s face. _What’s gotten into you? Why does this feel like goodbye?_

 

“Sherlock, what’s this about, really?” John’s voice is brittle. The weight of something like betrayal settles on his shoulders, his neck bowing down to stare at the floor.

 

“John, please,” begs Sherlock. He abruptly exits the bathroom, leaving John staring after him. He’s never seen Sherlock look so desperate. _What am I supposed to do with that?_ The bathroom door is open, chilling John’s body while his soul is simultaneously freezing over. He absent-mindedly puts on his socks before making his way out of the bathroom and down the stairs, preparing to confront Sherlock but unprepared for the sight of his brother’s assistant already waiting for him. _What now? What could Mycroft possibly want now, for fuck’s sake? Can’t just stop meddling for a bloody minute?_

 

He takes his seat across from Sherlock.

 

Present

 

John opens his eyes as he feels the deceleration of the car as it slows to a crawl. He’d fallen asleep not long into the drive, preferring to ignore Anthea as she tapped away at her phone. A look out of the window shows a rather different environment than London. Trees, a slight fog, a dirt road, what looks like a military base. _A military base? Christ, there must be miles of chain-link fencing._

 

The dirt road was lined with trees on one side and a barbed-wire fence on the other, the fog blurring everything that wasn’t within 20 yards of the car.

 

“Where are we?” _Shouldn’t have asked that. It’s not like she’ll give me a straight answer._

 

“Somewhere with more trees than people.” She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone as she says this. _Right._

 

The car glides up to a point in the fence where there appear to be armed guards stationed that stop the car, checking the identification for both the silent men in the front seat and Anthea. She flashes him a quick smile as they drive into the base, the dirt changing to tarmac once they reach another inner gate. _Bloody hell, what’ve they got his here for? In the middle of a forest…then again this is Mycroft I’m dealing with. I shouldn’t really be surprised._

 

More guards, more ID checking, more being waved through. When they finally stop and Anthea gets out, John is more than apprehensive about leaving the safety of the car. She raises an eyebrow at him, tutting impatiently.

 

“Doctor Watson, we really need to get you settled before full dark. I’d prefer to make it home before midnight as well.” John can see that the lights around the base have begun to flare into life as the sun goes down. He steps out, shoulders back and jaw tight.

 

“This way, Doctor.” She walks with her phone in front of her face and her head down, somehow managing to avoid running into the groups of people in military fatigues patrolling the outside of a large gray building. John follows along behind trying to stay with her while taking in everything around him. _It’s_ _definitely been a while since I’ve seen the inside of a place like this._ Without thinking, John automatically starts walking with a more military air, his old habits coming back. He felt a thrill at the familiarity, his spirits picking up a bit.

 

They enter into the main building through two large metal doors, going down a long corridor until it bisected in front of another pair of doors.

 

“That’s the mess hall,” Anthea says in passing, taking John down the left-hand passage towards dormitories. She stops midway down the hall, John nearly walking into her as she opens the door, leading him into a small room with a singular bed and a few sparse furnishings.

 

“This is where you’ll be staying for now. Bathroom and showers are down the hall. Someone will bring you a meal shortly.” She turns to leave, pulling the door closed behind her and then stops, peeking back in.

 

“If you need anything, or if something dire is going on, text the number that I just sent to your mobile. It’ll get to me.”

 

“Thanks,” John says to the closing door. He sits on the bed, setting his head in his hands as he listens to the sounds of feet in boots passing by his door in the hallway outside. The bed is pushed into the far right corner of the room, and he sits on it with his back against the wall as he pulls out his phone, 1 unread text message showing on the screen. _That’ll be the number she mentioned._ With a sigh John flicks through his contacts, selecting Sherlock, tapping out a text.

****

**_Arrived.  Still not sure that this_ **

**_was the best course of action,_ **

**_but I’m not mad anymore. I_ **

**_can’t ever really stay mad at you._ **

**_-JW_ **

 

He sends the text, staring at the screen, and then starts writing another one.

 

**_Why couldn’t you have come with_ **

**_me? I could’ve used the company._ **

**_Mycroft’s assistant didn’t exactly_ **

**_stay for a chat. I’m alone here,_ **

**_Sherlock. I don’t like it._ **

**_-JW_ **

 

He considers erasing the last two lines, but sends them anyway, feeling the need to make his thoughts on the matter even more obvious. _If he doesn’t text me back within the next 10 minutes I’m going to call him._ John’s phone goes off.

 

**_I’m sorry._ **

**_-SH_ **

 

John frowns. _How can that be all you have to say?_ He drops his phone onto the bed, and his head onto his knees. _This is complete bollocks._


	12. Jim

5 Years Ago

The 7th of March

 

Jim Moriarty sits at a café table outside Rubio’s, a small and rather expensive cup of coffee in front of him that steams gently, the wisps twirling in the light breeze that disturbs the cheerful flowers planted along the edge of the premises. He adjusts his blood-red tie out of the need to keep busy as he settles back against his small white metal chair, waiting. Whether for a bullet or Moran, he’s not particular. His eyes are hidden behind dark aviators as he looks at the small trickle of people making their way past his table, thinking up ways to kill them without using the same method twice to keep himself preoccupied.

 

“Easy peasy,” he whispers to himself, a heavy sigh on his lips as he lets his gaze simultaneously catalogue and dismiss everything around him. Waiting isn’t his strong point. _Who knew possibly getting shot at could be so boring?_

 

Jim catches something out of the corner of his eye. With all the silence of a specter, a tall blond man emerges out of the crowd of people in a gorgeously fitted suit, walking with a distinctly uncomfortable air, as if unused to the way the fabric hugged him. He winds his way through the maze of tables and chairs with a feline precision, not bothering to look where he steps, never so much as grazing the obstacles around him. Jim’s eyes follow the suit in motion, admiring the fluid grace of the lines and cut, filled with a fairly decent host, applauding his own fine taste. _Oh, it’s the perfect style for his height and swagger. I’m terribly good at this. If all else fails, I could become a world-class tailor._ The blond man glances around, his profile outlined against the dark buildings behind him, the sunlight playing off his hair, before sitting down across from Jim. _Finally._

 

“You didn’t respond. I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten me.” His voice dances over the words, but Jim lets his face pull into a slight frown, watching its effect on the man before him. _Nothing? No gold?_ Jim tries to not be disappointed. No flinching, no rushing to apologize or any of the usual things that Jim had come to expect from his employees. _Insolent or just difficult to intimidate?_ “Jim Moriarty. Hi.”

 

“Sebastian Moran, but you already know this.” Moran unbuttons his new jacket, the black falling to the sides to reveal the gossamer sheen of the dark charcoal-gray button-up underneath. _Oh God, this is suit pornography. This should be illegal just so that I can feel justified in watching it._

 

“Of course. What kind of mastermind would I be if I didn’t?” Jim runs a finger around the edge of his cup, idly glancing around, giving the appearance of having better things to do, thank you very much.

 

“Not a very good one, I suppose.” Moran sits very upright in his chair, straight-backed and alert, hands resting in fists on his thighs.

 

“To be honest I hadn’t made my decision until this morning, so I decided to do this in person. I wasn’t sure if the note would get to you. I did as you asked. Meyers is dead.” Moran leans over the small table, Jim raising an eyebrow as Moran hands over a rather battered mobile phone with a picture of the recently deceased Meyers on it. “And I’d like to accept your offer, if it still stands.”

 

Jim smiles widely, another thing that usually sends people scurrying. He takes off his sunglasses, folding them away into his breast-pocket. _Lovely._

 

“Good. What I want from you is simple. Kill when you’re told, no hesitation. Any qualms over killing women, children and the like have no place here. I expect utter efficiency. You’ll receive the information on your targets via texts directly from me. Only respond to the messages to report your success, or failure. You’d better hope the failure was unavoidable, or else you might as well put a bullet in your own brain. This is a permanent position, unless I say otherwise. You’ll know when your contract is up.” Jim lets his last sentence hang in the air, the threat standing on its own.

 

A moment of silence passes between the two of them, during which Jim’s dark eyes attempt to bore into the blue of his new sniper. Moran’s stare back, undaunted. _Oddly intriguing, aren’t you, considering how cliché the ex-soldier-turned-hitman complex is._

 

“As for payment, you’ll start at 30K per month, with an extra 30K for each hit.” Jim’s eyes flick downwards to where Moran’s wrist now rests on the edge of the table, giving the sleeve an affectionate glance, ignoring the occupant in favor of tracing the expensive fabric. _I really just can’t take my eyes off you, now can I Vivienne?_

 

“Double the amount per hit.” Moran is entirely straight-faced. _Oh, would you look at that. This one’s got balls. I thought we’d already agreed that I was the one making demands?_ Jim crosses on leg over the other, picking non-existent lint from his trousers.

 

“No.” Jim lets his expression go blank, his voice dropping slightly, gaining a rougher quality. Quadrupling Moran’s pay wouldn’t have made the slightest dent in Jim’s funds at all. This is a test. _Just how cheeky a monkey are you? Potential employers should know these things about potential employees._

 

“Then I walk away.” Moran leans back in his chair, hands pressing down on his thighs, elbows outwards, as though he were about to stand up and leave right then.

 

“And then what? You’ve killed someone who hired you. Do you really think anyone else would be willing to hire you after that?” Jim mirrors Moran, leaning back again, letting his fingers drum out a waltz on the table. _I’ve already turned away all of your potential clients with a little memo about the murder. Burned your bridges. You’ve no real choice but to work for me._

 

“I’ve got other talents. I can manage.” Moran’s voice has an edge to it. _You’re more than willing to break our little business deal. I can’t tell whether this is more fun or just plain annoying._

 

Jim smirks. _Deny me my victory, why don’t you. You’re definitely more interesting than my other snipers, if more obstinate. I suppose you’ll be worth it._

 

“Fine. Doubled. Don’t expect any more favors.” _Ever. One concession because you’re not as boring as most._

 

“Got it, Boss.” Moran’s face is tight, a small smile upturning the edges of his mouth. _How familiar of you_.

 

“You’ll refer to me as Mr. Moriarty, unless you want to be a mute sniper.” Jim motions to the waiter for more coffee, letting this threat slip out as though he was merely commenting on the weather. _I’m a man of my word. Most of the time._

 

“Understood, Mr. Moriarty.” _Oh, that’s adorable. Look at how he heels for his master._

 

“It’s a shame that you’ve been wasting such talent on the _little criminals_. All of your hits have been flawless. I’ve been keeping track. Hong Kong, Amsterdam. My special favorites, just to name a few.” Jim toys with his empty cup, turning it on its tiny saucer, the handle making a 180 degree rotation.

 

“If you’ve known about me for so long, why didn’t you hire me sooner?” Moran waves away the glass of water that the waiter moves to set down in front of him after serving Jim’s fresh cup of coffee, the slightly imperious gesture leaving Jim quirking an eyebrow into his cup as he sips at it.

 

“I wasn’t hiring then. Recently one of my gunmen failed an assassination on a foreign minister. Needless to say I…,” Jim casually shrugs his shoulders, “ _terminated_ his contract. You were at the top of my list to replace him, and here we are. The fact that I was to be killed by you just made it that much more fun to acquire you.” Jim sips at his hot coffee. “By the way, how’d you like my gift?”

 

“It’s not really my style, but it’s definitely the most expensive thing I’ve ever worn.” Moran plucks at the jacket, letting it fall back into place, noticing Jim following the motion intently. The sniper very nearly raises an eyebrow, stopping when Jim’s eyes meet his.

 

“Get used to it. Suits are the standard uniform for anyone working for me. I don’t care what your suits look like as long as they’re reasonably fashionable and expensive enough to feed a family of 4 for a year. I don’t like my employees looking so pedestrian.” _None of my employees are poor. Not with the way I pay them. Even the lowest of them are quite a ways above the poverty line._

 

Moran nods once, standing, not bothering to extend a hand to shake. _Good. You’re getting the hang of it._

 

“Of course, Mr. Moriarty,” Moran says with at least partial obedience.  Jim raises a hand.

 

“One more thing.” Jim takes out a large roll of money, tossing the entire thing at the sniper, who catches it with ease. “I’ve someone I need you to bump off later today. I’ll text you the address. Be ready.”

 

Jim watches with the pleasure of a connoisseur as Moran melts back into the crowd as if he never was, blending in despite his obviously high-priced attire. With a small smile Jim pulls out his own sleek mobile, Moran’s number already in his phone, sending a one-handed text to his new sniper, the address of his first official target under Moriarty’s command. He makes a call.

 

“I want you to pull the car around. I’ve got quite a show planned for myself.” He ends the call. _And Moran, you’d better perform._ He stands, his coffee steaming lightly in the neutral breeze as he disappears _more_ completely than if he never was.

 

2.5 Hours Later

 

Jim is reclining on an expensively upholstered lounge chair, his driver having dragged it out onto the balcony across from the 23rd floor office window of some small-time crooked businessman that he feels he can do without. Clearing out the occupants of this floor had been no trouble. _Easy peasy. Now if only Moran would show up and entertain me._

 

He glances at all of the prime vantage points that he can find, looking for the barest edge of the barrel peeking out of window or off the side of the roofs around him, something to give Moran away. Nothing as of yet. He sighs loudly, with the petulance of a child. The door to the room that the balcony projects off of opens and quiet footsteps approach.

 

“Have you finally gotten me that strawberry daiquiri?  Such waiting displeases me.” He waits to hear the bumbling apology, but it doesn’t come.

 

Instead, not a half-second later, a tall figure dressed in a plain black t-shirt and torn jeans steps directly next to Jim, raising a rifle with a silencer to his shoulder, eye to the scope.

 

Jim doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cry out in surprise at the loudness of the shot, just exhales in time with the lightning-fast pull of the trigger, feeling a tingle in his fingertips as he sees the window opposite his balcony gain a small hole, its occupant’s features disappearing in a plume of red as he tumbles to the floor. He turns to Moran just as the man lowers his rifle, raising an eyebrow, his ears ringing with the retort of the gun. _Audacious or coincidence?_ His lets his eyes sweep over the man in front of him.

 

“You’re not wearing your suit.” Jim’s voice is flat and mockingly confused, a little moue marring his brow, ignoring that he’s slightly impressed by the show thus far. Jim stands, dipping his hands into his pockets. _Audacious. Cheeky monkey. Useful, but cheeky._

 

“It’s difficult to shoot with a suit on.” Moran rests the butt of his gun on the tip of his shoe, looking as unperturbed as if he had only swatted a fly rather than extinguished a life. _Very useful. Very cheeky._

 

“As I said before. Get used to it. You’ll find I don’t like to repeat myself.” Jim strolls into the room, leaving Moran on the balcony, rubbing his fingertips together in his pockets, savoring the frisson. Jim’s mobile vibrates in his trouser pocket. He fishes it out, the late-afternoon light against his back, the long shadow of the sniper extending darkly across the beige carpeting, still as a statue, like something out of a child’s nightmares. Waiting and predatory. _You’re putting granite to shame, Moran. You definitely know how to show a boy a good time. The same building might’ve been coincidence. The same floor even, but the same room? Show off. I like it._

 

**Hit complete. Target**

**deceased.**

**-SM**

 

“Cheeky monkey,” Jim murmurs with a smile. He walks out of the room and into the main hallway of that floor, discovering his driver to be unconscious and slumped against the wall, a good-sized bump on the side of his head. “Moran. Pick him up and carry him to the car. You’ll be driving me tonight, since you so graciously decided to incapacitate my ride.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Moriarty,” says Moran as he enters the hallway silently, leaning his gun against the wall as he slings the unconscious man over his shoulder, picking up his rifle in his free hand again, moving off down the corridor with ease. Jim saunters down the hallway after him, smiling at the head of his driver lolling with the rhythm of the sniper’s gait. _This is quite amusing, really. Productive day. New hire, a good show, and a dead man. Just when things were starting to get boring again._

 

As Moran reaches the door to the stairwell, he opens it with the hand wrapped around the driver’s legs, pulling it open and holding it there with his foot as Jim walks through. Jim pats his chest as he walks past. _Good boy. How docile._

 

“We’ll have a lot of fun, you and I,” Jim lilts, his voice echoing as he ambles down the stairs. _Oh, oodles of fun, darling._

 

Present

The 4th of March

 

Jim savors the look on Seb’s face, the way that the corners of the sniper’s eyes crease slightly when he smiles, the bite-mark around his mouth distorting slightly, the fading bruises looking like shadows. Jim’s own shark-ish grin is 3 parts genuine pleasure, 1 part gloating pride _.  I’ve never seen you smile quite like that. We’ll just call that a win for me._

 

He jauntily slides off the stool leaving Seb to eat his breakfast, flopping back onto the couch and pulling out his mobile, holding it above his face as he goes through the various texts and emails that he’s received overnight. _Success  with the Minsk proposal, boring, Duchess of Who-Gives-A-Fuck wants to brunch, no, boring, request for a charitable donation to a children’s hospital, wire them a half-million, boring, reports of Holmes the Elder’s forces moving towards my area—_ Jim sits up, rereading the text. The text after that was sent only a few minutes ago, strongly recommending that he abandon his current location and flee. _Shit. Things are moving more quickly than I’d thought._ He sends a text.

 

**I may have need of your**

**services. Have it ready.**

**-JM**

 

He casts a hesitant glance at Sebastian, who is still seated at the counter with his back to Jim, reading a newspaper that Jim had brought over along with the new couch. Jim feels something intangible, yet heavy settle on his chest. Guilt. He’s never felt guilt before, and the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth makes him scowl. He lays back with a small growl of irritation with himself for feeling like this, his eyes wandering back to the screen of his mobile as he sends a text to his chauffer. _We won’t have much time left for fun with what’s coming Seb._

 

**Make reservations for two**

**at Rubio’s. Have the car**

**ready and waiting in 30**

**minutes.**

**-JM**

 

“Go get ready. Wear something nice. We leave in 40.” Jim rolls off the couch and walks into his room to change as Seb heads off towards the guest bathroom with an anticipatory look on his face. _Good God, you’re pathetically excited for this, aren’t you?_ He closes the door behind him, smiling at the tangled pile of sheets on his bed when he turns around. He hadn’t had the nightmare last night, and had woken up feeling decently rested. _Oh, Seb, you work like a charm_. He spies the tie he’d made Seb wear to bed the night before on the floor. _And the prick just leaves it on the ground. Unacceptable_. Jim cocks his head to the side.

 

Jim hears the water turn on, hears the curtain get pulled back and then closed. _Yes, perfect. Nothing quite like payback to get your mind off of devastating master-plans. Payback for flicking me and fucking up my tie. Serves you right._ With a mischievous smirk on his face, Jim walks into his bathroom, opening the door to his shower, reaching an arm to grab the shower remote, turning it to its highest heat setting. He claps his hands together once, acknowledging a job well done.  _It’s never too early for shenanigans. A nice cold shower should wake you up._

 

He strolls out of the bathroom, and sits on his bed, humming as he waits for the inevitable chaos to ensue. 5 minutes pass before Seb walks in without warning, a towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping from his hair, a grin that spells murder on his face as he stares at Jim without blinking. Jim feels his own manic smile spread as he cackles like a naughty child.

 

“What’s the matter, Sebastian?” Jim’s voice is filled with suppressed glee. Seb advances on him, the grin frozen in place. _Oh, fuck._

 

“No, no! Don’t you lay a hand on me!” Jim moves to stand on his bed, backing away from Seb, his mirth turning to panic as the larger man grips his arm, dragging Jim off the bed and towards the master bathroom. He tries futilely to dig his heels into the carpet, but is relentlessly pulled onward, stumbling to his knees when Seb gives a particularly vicious tug.

 

“You’re going to pull my bloody arm out of its socket! Fucking hell, Sebastian!” Jim’s shoulder aches as he pulls in the opposite direction, switching between twisting his arm and prying at Sebastian’s fingers. Seb moves through the archway into the bathroom, entirely ignoring the smaller man’s cries, the grip on Jim’s wrist vice-like as his flailing grows more violent.

 

“No! Seb! Let go!” Jim’s shrill voice echoes off of the cold tile, his feet slipping on the trail of wet that drips from the larger man. Jim growls as he tries to rend his arm out of Seb’s hold, his breathing loud. With a casual tug that somehow doesn’t dislodge the towel from around his waist, Seb pulls open the shower door, pulling Jim to him to get a better grip as he pushes  the smaller man into the icy shower, leaning against the outside of the door. The design of the shower leaves no place safe from the spray of water, and drenches the furious crime lord trapped within.

 

“You fucking twat! Let me out!” Jim pounds his fists against the door, the cold water sluicing down him, soaking through all the fabric on his body, making him feel heavy as well as chilled to the bone. “Sebastian fucking Moran! MORAN! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR.” He punctuates each word with a punch.

 

He finally stops hitting the door after pointless minutes spent trying to threaten and cajole Sebastian into letting him out, letting his forehead rest against the glass in between where Seb’s shoulder blades are on the other side. He’s shivering violently by now, his body aching with cold, his temper numbed.

 

“Seb,” he whimpers quietly, his teeth chattering. The door opens, and Jim stumbles out looking like a drowned cat, and just as pathetic as one. The air outside the shower chills him even more as he glares weakly. Seb stands with a dry towel in his hand which he offers to Jim, who throws his sopping shirt at the larger man in response, along with the rest of his wet clothes, snatching the towel from Seb.

 

“Twat,” Jim mutters darkly, drying himself off. _Such a fucking asshole. Why do I put up with you?_

 

“Same to you, Boss,” returns Seb good-naturedly, with a smug smile and a small laugh. Seb turns off the shower, leaving Jim to dress while Seb gets ready as well.

 

Jim pouts. Professionally. He could teach a class, or write a book on it. He pouts as he pulls on his underclothes, his socks, his Brooks Brother’s suit, his Louis Vuitton loafers. But when he opens the door to his room to stomp out the car like an angry child he feels his jaw drop. There stands Sebastian Moran, wearing the glorious Westwood that Jim had bought for him 5 years previously. _Hellooo, gorgeous. Still fits perfectly, still a delicious piece._

 

“You still have that old thing? I thought you were joking. I’m surprised it’s lasted this long with how you treat clothing. Goodness me, Seb. Sentimental much, darling?” Jim is still stunned by the suit’s reappearance, and he knows that Seb can see it.

 

“I told you, Boss, that unless my clothes have holes in them, I keep them. I’ve only worn this thing, what, 5 times?” Seb gestures and the suit’s fabric ripples distractingly.

 

“Seven,” Jim immediately answers, mentally slapping himself on the back of the head when Sebastian smiles again. Jim scowls. He wasn’t even aware that he’d kept track of that. _Sentiment, Jim. Pull yourself together._

 

Without another word, Jim moves off toward the door, trying to avoid listening too closely to the sound of Seb’s suit as he walks behind Jim. _The bastard is doing this on purpose. I should just make him go back and change into his usual shitty clothes. But hell…he wears that thing so well. It’s not fair, you using that against me._

 

They step into the lift, and Seb reclines against the reflective wall behind him. Knowing that Jim can see him in the mirror-like doors, the sniper stretches luxuriously, causing Jim to purse his lips in his torment. _Oh, you prick. Cease your teasing._ The lift takes them down to the parking garage, where the car is waiting for them, and Seb opens the door for Jim to slide in, getting in directly after. The door slams closed.

 

Jim spends the drive on his phone, checking on his minor operations in America, arranging for a small liquor store to be blown up, seducing the Duchess of Who-Gives-A-Fuck via email, yet keeping things distant, etc. He’s so absorbed when the car goes around a corner, that the steady pull of the turn causes him to tip sideways until he’s leaning against Sebastian’s shoulder, not bothering to sit up straight, merely adjusting the way his head rests as he continues to tap the keys of his phone. Seb chuckles lightly.

 

The car pulls up outside a fairly nondescript office building in the middle of a quiet plaza, men and women going their own silent ways, ignoring the tall shade trees and lacquered benches. Jim moves to climb over Seb to the door on that side of the car.

 

“Stay in the car. I’ll deal with the boring people, and then we’ll be on our way. Won’t be a minute,” Jim assures, closing the door without waiting for Seb’s response. _Don’t worry your pretty head. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve something planned. Had it planned for years._ As he walks briskly away from the car and into the building, the feeling of guilt returns. _I’ll tell him eventually._

 

As he enters the building, the people paid to populate the lobby snap their heads downward, staring silently and intently at their business, the model of respect and fear. He scowls with displeasure all the same as he walks, and he can hear the frightened breathing of the few who saw the look on his face. _Good. Know the face of death._

 

He continues down the long corridor to the left, a blanket of hush following him as he makes his way through the building, the office of the people he’d set to keep an eye on all things Holmes being at the rear. He stands in front of the door, cracking his neck on each side, waiting for the door to be opened from the inside. He knows they’re aware that he’s arrived. The door is pulled open and Jim steps through, the 12 people inside standing at attention as his eyes sweep over the rows of computers playing CCTV feeds from various locations and dates showing Sherlock and his companion doing ordinary things. Never once had they managed to catch Mycroft Holmes on tape. _Much too careful, aren’t we, Mr. Holmes?_ Jim’s face is blank, but his rage is evident in the calm tone of his voice. The kind of calm that suggests terrible things are about to happen.

 

“Explain to me how Mycroft Holmes got past all of the counter-surveillance technology riddling the 4 block radius around my flat.” He waits, staring at the desperate faces before him.

 

“Mr. Moriarty, sir.” Jim’s piercing gaze turns to a tall woman with a short crop of black hair. “It seems that his people have developed something new. Something using an entirely different wave-length, or new materials. We’re unsure at the moment.” _I’ve no time to kill them all, nor the people to immediately replace them._ His gazes coldly at her, watching her squirm like an insect.

 

“You will remedy this. Have the secondary flat prepared by tonight. Any more slip ups and I’m afraid that I’m going to have to dissolve this little group.” He loves being literal when it comes to vague threats. _Hydrochloric acid is always a ready option._ The people standing in front of him were utterly silent in their terror. This had happened before to another department. It had been witnessed in person by everyone in the building, and via webcam for the other sectors around London. He stares into their wild-eyed faces. “Understood?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Moriarty, sir,” they all answer.

 

“Failure in this respect is unpardonable. Send me a report when you make progress.” Jim turns, exits the room, pulling the door closed himself, smiling when he hears a few sobs coming through the door behind him. _Just grand._

 

The sound of his shoes against the floor is the only thing to be heard as he saunters down the hall, as if the rest of the building is hold its breath until he leaves. _True enough._ He steps out, adjusting his tie before he gets back in the car, shooing Sebastian to the other end of the seat.

 

“Everything go alright?” Seb stares at Jim, an eyebrow raising when Jim nods in affirmation.

 

“Splendidly, swimmingly,” Jim mumbles as the car pulls away. Jim smoothes his face, feeling the tight scowl start to fade. _Lunch with your favorite henchman, cheer the fuck up._ His mood lightens in increments as Seb’s knee rests against his own, the larger man’s restlessness showing in the way his foot taps against the floor.

 

“Sebastian, you’re going to give me headache. Sit still, will you?” Jim smiles slightly as Seb rolls his eyes, but stops anyway.

 

“Where’re we going, Jim?” The sniper bites the side of his bottom lip absent-mindedly. _Wouldn’t you like to know._

 

“You’ll see, Sebby. You’ll be proud of me. The depths to which I’ve sunk to entertain your foolish ideas of anniversaries.” _So very low._

 

“That or bloody horrified, right? Jesus, this is making me anxious.” Seb breathes out slowly, eyes darting around, hands clenching. _You can kill people without mercy, but having a surprise lunch-outing gives you the willies? God, you’re weird._

 

“Do you recognize where we are yet? Come now, Seb. Look at where we’re headed.” Jim leans towards Seb slightly, eyebrows raised, trying to lead him to the answer. He sees recognition pass over the larger man’s face.

 

“Rubio’s,” states Sebastian hesitantly, as though he expects Jim to shout at him for a wrong answer. The car turns the corner, and this time Seb is the one that slides a little, his legs flexing to prevent himself from bumping into Jim.

 

“Good,” says Jim, patting Seb on the knee in praise. “Now look alive, my pretty. We’re here.” The car pulls up to the curb slowly and Sebastian opens the door, standing on the sidewalk, Jim stepping out as though the red carpet beckoned. He closes it as Jim moves off towards the table. The very same table. Jim seats himself with all due pomp and flare, waiting for Seb to catch up. _The poor dear seems to be in a bit of a daze._

 

“Well fuck, when you said you’d sunk...” Seb finally sits down a smirk on his face that hides his grin, toying with his cuffs as he lets his eyes take in the familiar surroundings. “…I hadn’t thought you’d meant it like this. Should I be blushing? I always knew you were a romantic.”

 

“Shut your bloody face and order something before I do it for you,” Jim sneers, narrowing his eyes. _And I always knew you were a clingy sap._

 

“Which part, boss? Shutting my face or ordering for me? You’re so sweet, Jim.” Seb quirks an eyebrow as his crooked smile turns into a simpering leer. The larger man unbuttons his jacket, runs a hand sensuously down the lapel. “You’re too good to me.” _Oh, you’re a twat. Low blow. Low. Blow._

 

“Fuck off,” says Jim, his face its own mask of false sweetness. He leans back further as he closes his eyes to avoid anymore of Seb’s teasing, shaking his head when Sebastian laughs out loud. The waiter approaches with an eager dip of his head. “I’ll have your beluga caviar and the finest year of wine you can find. The oaf here’ll have your chicken strips, water, and a coloring book.”

 

The waiter hesitates, unsure if Jim is joking or not, looking from Jim’s stony face to Seb’s wolfish grin before scurrying away. Still staring at Jim, Seb leans back, running his tongue over his bottom lip, looking contented and amused by the smaller man’s antics. Seb’s smile grows wider.

 

“What,” snaps Jim, Sebastian’s smug expression causing Jim’s voice to become an annoyed growl. The sniper raises his hands in mock surrender, further displaying the bounties of his suit, the breast-pocket’s black satin trim catching the light. _Spare me._

 

“Absolutely nothing, Jim,” the sniper drawls. Sebastian basks in the mild afternoon warmth, tipping his head back. If he had a tail it would be flicking lazily from side to side, like some big cat lounging on the savannah. _Me-ow, Sebby._

 

The food arrives quickly, the wine and water along with it, the waiter balancing it all on a thin tray with a floral design, the entire thing bowed under the weight of the items rested on it.

 

“Erm,” stutters the waiter, reaching into the pocket of his apron. Sebastian tenses, as though preparing to tackle the waiter, but relaxes just as quickly when the only thing the man withdraws is a thin plastic baggie with a few pieces of coloring paper and 3 crayons in it. The waiter sets this on the table next to the small plastic red basket of chicken strips that were placed in front of Seb. The waiter scurries away again, looking relived to get out of their presence.

 

“This isn’t our only activity. I’ve got the entire evening planned.” Jim looks pointedly at Seb, gesturing with his eyes for the sniper to start eating.

 

Sebastian chuckles darkly, shaking his head in mild disbelief as he picks up a piece of the chicken and dunks it into Jim’s caviar, biting off the end with relish. Jim makes a noise of outrage, smacking Sebastian’s hand when he moves to do it again. Jim looks on in fascinated disgust as Seb eats the rest of his food, picking the bits of breading out of his fish eggs. _You’ve tainted my caviar, you cunt. There’s no way I’m eating this now._ Jim pushes his artfully placed food away, wrinkling his nose.

 

“You’re such a barbarian. I don’t know why I take you out in public.”

 

“For entertainment. Nothing quite like releasing a wild animal amongst people to watch them run in fear. Now eat something, you bony twat.” Sebastian waves a chicken finger insistently in Jim’s face until he takes it from Seb distastefully, cringing at the grease on his fingers before reluctantly consuming it. _Filth. Disgusting._

 

“See? It’s not so bad. Here, I’ll use the bloody crayons to draw you a picture for the fridge.” Sebastian hunches over, shielding the paper from view. Jim cranes his neck, trying to see, scowling when Seb tells him to back off. Jim huffs in impatience, tapping his foot and twiddling his fingers.

 

“Voila,” announces Sebastian a few minutes later, holding up the paper with a flourish. Jim’s jaw drops.

 

“Goodness me, Sebastian! Such untapped talent! You must’ve been an artist in another life, because that is a drawing worthy of the gods,” Jim gushes, batting his eyelids. Sebastian looks at his stickfigure-Jim wearing a red bikini, and grunts in agreement.

 

“I think so too. Maybe I could sell it to an art gallery. I might just have to quit sniping to become a full-time artist. Make millions.” Seb’s deadpan slips slightly, and soon both of them are laughing, eyes shining with their merriment.

 

Their meal passes with good wine and not so good food, leaving them both with slight smiles on their faces and laughter suppressed in their chests as Seb continues his artistic endeavors.

%

Sebastian slams the car door closed, looking over at Jim as the car starts forward, a smile still lingering on his lips as the light of the day begins to darken, the street lamps sparking into life. Jim tucks Sebastian’s hideously raunchy drawings into his pants pocket under the cover of the space in between the flare of the lamps.

 

“What next then, Jimmy?” The levity of the atmosphere in the car was palpable and Jim could feel Seb’s grin despite the dark.

 

“You’ll see, darling. We’ve more ahead of us.” Jim smiles at Seb, turning before the smile begins to fade. _More ahead of us than you know._

 

Jim keeps Sebastian in his peripheries at all times, gauging how well his anniversary attempt is going through his sniper’s looks and gestures. _So far everything seems to be to his liking. Hmph, of course it is. He’s not hard to please._ Despite that sentiment, Jim watches closely for Seb’s reaction for when they slow outside of their next destination.

 

“Oh holy shhh...” Seb’s eyes brighten as he opens the door, stepping out, his mouth slightly open. Seb stands in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the grubby building in front of him, completely absorbed in the sight. Jim closes the door himself, a satisfied grin playing about his mouth as he steps up next to Sebastian.

 

“Ah, our next stop on Memory Lane. You can close your mouth now.” He lightly nudges Seb, drawing the man from his reverie.

 

“I’d’ve thought this place would’ve been knocked down by now. It looks just as shitty as that night.”

 

“Well, I may or may not’ve bought the place a few years back. Kept it from going under. Maybe. And Rubio’s as well.” Jim looks out of the corner of his eye coyly, rocking back on his heels.

 

“Jim, you little shit. Why didn’t you ever mention it? Just, holy hell. The Lion’s Den.” Seb tears his eyes away from the hand-painted sign, to Jim’s face, his own set in an amazed expression. _Someone looks impressed,_ Jim thinks to himself, thrilling over Seb’s response.

 

“We may be a little overdressed, but…,” trails Jim, walking forward slightly. “Come now. Less staring, more enthusiastic praise. This place was a lost cause before I came around. Drinks on the house for the mysterious benefactor and his handsome friend.”

 

“Jim,” starts Seb, as though looking for the right words. Evidently he doesn’t find them, for all he does is grin like an idiot and shake his head, chuckling again.

 

“I’m tired of standing. Let’s go inside before we get mugged or something,” mutters Jim, glancing benignly at the thuggish looking group of men walking by. _Aren’t they cute? Look at their tattoos and quaint little bandanas. Nothing more than petty car-jackers._

 

Seb’s eyes follow the group until they round the corner before he opens the door for Jim, who walks in as if he owns the place. _I do, remember?_ Jim leads the way automatically to the table in the window, Seb following directly behind him. They sit down, Jim waves a hand. They order, Seb drinking like a horse while Jim nurses a small buzz over a few daiquiris. Seb squints at Jim, a small frown on his face.

 

“C’mon, Jim. I haven’t seen you drunk in a while. Let loose, Boss.” Seb gestures for more lager. Jim scrunches his eyes closed, shaking his head regretfully.

 

“That’s because the last time I got drunk I killed three valuable employees and had to stay in bed for three days, you prat.” He shudders at the memory of pounding headaches and the sensation of spinning.

 

“Oh, stop complaining. You weren’t the one that had to clean up the vomit, bloody light-weight.” Seb raises his eyebrows at Jim.

 

“Well, neither were you, if I’m not mistaken, you border-line alcoholic.” Jim makes a face as the beer is set before them, rolling his eyes. “Fuck it.” Seb claps him on the shoulder after Jim chugs down the bitter brew, laughing at the way Jim grimaces at the taste. _Fuck, it’s just as awful as I remember it._

 

“There we go, Jim!” Jim’s pleasant buzz grows euphoric in proportions as the night goes on, the alcohol flowing like water, Jim’s laughter getting more and more wild sounding, as Sebastian smiles conspiratorially over stories from his days in the warzone, leaning across the table as he tells them in a loud whisper over the music playing in the background.

 

Just around 2 AM the bar starts to empty, leaving only the two of them there while the bartender wipes down the tables around them. Jim rubs a hand over his face, standing suddenly. _Before there’s no time left._

 

“C’mon, Sebby. I’ve another place to go with you. S’go, Seb. Up!” A drunk Jim hauls Sebastian to his feet, both of them leaning on each other as they make their way out to the car, somehow managing to get in without too much trouble. _One more place. One last peaceful night._

%

Jim giggles as he opens the door to the darkened room, walking backwards as he watches Sebastian follow him in, a smile splitting the sniper’s face, both of them swaying slightly, both of them giddy with alcohol on their breath. The light flooding through the balcony’s glass doors from the city around them is the only illumination, the shadows soft against their eyes, the sound of their feet on the carpet a slurred whisper. Jim reaches the sliding door, pulling it to the side, nearly stumbling, laughing with impish delight when Sebastian grabs his arm, steadying him as they both step out into the cool night air, leaving the muted sounds of indoors for the constant noise of the city outside. A police siren wails down some distant street. _Mischief is afoot_ , he jokes with himself.

 

The lounge chair is once more on the balcony, Jim having sent someone to set it up, just as it was years before, looking out at the office building where Seb had made his lasting impression, the window long since replaced, only the memory of the bullet hole left. Jim watches Seb stagger over to the lounge chair and lay down on one half of it, patting the empty space next to him, inviting Jim to join him. With a small hiccup Jim lays down, his head resting against Sebastian’s shoulder, his right arm draped across the larger man’s chest. _This is nice_. He blinks slowly in realization.

 

“Seb, I think I’m a cuddler.” Jim’s voice is low, his thoughts mulling this over. Seb responds by pulling Jim closer, resting his chin on Jim’s head, his body radiating heat like a protective aura around the both of them, fending off the cold. The steady rhythms of both their hearts resound through each other. _I’ve never been more comfortable than right now, with you. Only you._ He tightens his arm, his fingers gripping the fabric of Sebastian’s suit as he buries his face into the crook of the sniper’s neck, the flesh there smelling of soap and of something better. Sebastian’s pulse beats against Jim’s forehead, the searing warmth of the contact eliciting from the smaller man a sigh of contentment. _If only this could last. But no. Things’ll change very soon._

 

“Seb,” Jim mumbles.

 

“Hmm?” The sleepy relaxation in his voice is almost painful for Jim. _Maybe he shouldn’t know._

 

“Remember that thing we talked about?” Jim’s voice is quiet. _I shouldn’t tell him. It’d be so much simpler for him not to know._

 

“When?” Seb’s pulse is a slow thump, his voice betraying how close to sleep he really is.

 

“After the Thailand fiasco.”

 

“You mean after you were captured, tortured, and I had to rescue your sorry arse? What about it?” Sebastian’s voice is a low rumbling bass that vibrates against Jim’s body.

 

“I’d said that I was working on something. Something that would make my capture utterly useless.” The sniper’s body tenses, the arm curled around Jim’s waist clenching, as though to prevent him from running away.

 

“Jim…no...,” Sebastian pleads. Pleads. _He’s begging me._

 

“Not yet, Sebby…but soon.” Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, nestles closer to his sniper, feeling that odd emotion again. Guilt. _I’m sorry, Sebastian. For the first time, I’m actually sorry._

 

They hold each other tight, their alcohol-induced happiness gone, each afraid to lose the other to the crashing waves of a cruel reality.


	13. Sherlock

11th of March

The heavy tocking of the grandfather clock in Mycroft’s office tolls coldly, nearly as coldly as the gaze shared by the two Holmes brothers as they sit at opposite ends of the teak table. The early morning light is blocked entirely by thick drapes, tension clouding the cool air. Everything reeks of expense, from the leather chairs to the ornate lamps which throw their dim light upon delicate vases and beautiful paintings, a case full of books lines one wall, the theme of elegance pervading all.

 

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s hands are folded on the wood in front of him, his frown deepening. Sherlock glares back. _Someone’s gained weight._

 

“Yes, Mycroft,” returns Sherlock, uttering each word with a defiant emphasis, his tone contrasting sharply with the air of nonchalance that his posture creates, leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. _There’s no point in trying to reason with me. You should know this._

 

“I can’t be expected to let you go off alone. This is a foolish idea, more so than your usual ones. Allow my men to−“

 

“ _Your men_ are next to useless. We don’t have time to wait for them to get on the right track. I’m leaving tonight to the Continent, specifically Germany. I’ve already got the ticket. Following a lead.” Sherlock stares stubbornly, refusing to be turned from his path. As Mycroft sighs, Sherlock relaxes inwardly, knowing that his brother has ceased resisting, at least for now. _I’ve already made up my mind._

 

“What makes you think that even _you_ will be able to find the roots of his organization? Last I checked, he never leaves any substantial traces of his presence, no matter how audacious his crimes.” Mycroft’s expression is one of fading patience as he plucks nonexistent fluff from the cuff of his jacket. _So pretentious._

 

“There’s always something left behind to betray someone. You know this better than anyone, Mycroft.” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in mild frustration, tapping a nail against the table. “I just need to be given _time_ to collect the traces.”

 

“What of Doctor Watson, Sherlock? Is he to be informed of your…little scheme? He is restless, you know. He has not uttered a word of complaint, but one does not need to be a detective to see that his patience is wearing thin. He trusts you implicitly, Sherlock. Is he wrong to do so?”

 

A long moment of silence remains unbroken, Sherlock’s eyes glaring at the serene expression Mycroft directs at him. _Of course he’s wrong to trust me, but I’m glad that he does.  I’ve been so careless._

 

“I’ll tell him what he needs to know. As much as is safe for him to know,” concludes Sherlock, feeling the unease in his chest grow.

 

“Are you really qualified to determine what is safe for him to know? The wellbeing of others was never your strongpoint. If it were not for Doctor Watson’s ability to take care of himself he would have wasted away from neglect and malnutrition. As would you if it were not for him forcing tea and food down your throat.”

 

“As if you’d know anything of malnutrition, Mycroft,” hisses Sherlock, stung by the truth in his brother’s words, turning his head away as the soft rumble of Mycroft’s laughter reaches his ears. _Bastard._

 

“Struck a chord, have I? Good. The realization that Doctor Watson is not a pet that can be given away when the responsibility becomes too much will benefit you in the end.” Mycroft strokes the handle of his umbrella which is hooked over the arm of his chair. _Umbrellas_ , thinks Sherlock, _hateful things._

 

“John is _not_ a pet to me.” Sherlock bites out the words, his jaw tight and his eyes narrow. _Not a pet. A friend. My only friend._

 

“Your inexperience is showing, Sherlock. Friendship is meant to be a mutual experience of cooperation and trust. What you have with him seems quite one-sided, does it not,” queries Mycroft softly.

 

Anger bubbles under Sherlock’s façade of boredom which has once more slipped into place. _You’re wrong. I fixed his limp. I did that for him. I gave him an interesting life when he would’ve died of boredom before. I’ve changed. I’ve changed for him and because of him._

 

“Before you implode, it might be prudent for you to listen to what I have to say with regards to the flat in which you were held. You, of course, remember the microchips I had mentioned. Moriarty was obviously sure that he would be safe, even if a tracking device was placed on his person, due to the massive amounts of counter-surveillance technology scattered around London, but luckily for us this newest chip was able to get out a small signal. Weak as it was, we had isolated the block where the signal was strongest.” Mycroft pauses, tilting his head slightly downwards.

 

“And?”  Sherlock snaps. He gestures with a long hand. “You said ‘we had’, past tense. What did you find?”

 

“Nothing. The chip was on the ground in the basement parking garage. My men searched every floor. Every resident was submitted for a background check. Every one of them passed.”

 

“Mycroft, it was the flat on the topmost floor. How could you botch that? _He was there_. Better yet, _I was there_.” Sherlock fumes internally. _Hoping for accurate results when you’ve got dimwits for agents is a lesson in futility._

 

“That particular flat is unoccupied. It is empty, Sherlock. Both of people and furnishings. Every resident has corroborated that it has not been lived in for months.” Mycroft stands, approaching the small table against the far wall where a crystal decanter of brandy and 4 glasses rest, Sherlock’s eyes following him closely.

 

“They’re lying, clearly. A child could figure that out.” The impatience in Sherlock’s voice cuts through the air, but his quiet vehemence creates no effect on the calm form of his brother.  He crosses a leg, wishing that he had left his coat on, or at the very least his scarf— _Ah. I’d forgotten. John took it with him._

 

“We can do nothing if we cannot prove it. You know as well as I that Moriarty is nothing if not thorough,” responds Mycroft, sipping at the amber liquid in his tumbler, gazing at the carpet, a small smile of appreciation on his face.

 

Sherlock stares at the grain of the wood in front of him, tapping a finger against it, the whorls and loops shining in the lamp light. _Thorough, but not ineffable._ He takes a quick breath in, lifting his eyes to meet Mycroft’s.

 

“Mycroft, seeing as I’ll be gone by tomorrow I recommend that the flat be revisited. Oh, and Mycroft? Do it yourself. Everyone always misses the obvious clues, and you could use the exercise. How _is_ the diet, by the way?” Sherlock’s sneering face smiles tauntingly, his hands withdrawing to fold in his lap.

 

“I am no longer on a diet.” Mycroft’s face is unperturbed, his tone chiding. “As for visiting the flat myself, well, I will have to see if I can clear some time in between holding this country together and cleaning up after you. I _am_ , after all, a busy man. You, on the other hand, seem to be free as a bird when it comes to responsibility. What of those who need you at the Yard? Detective Inspector Lestrade will certainly not appreciate you running off. After everything he has done for you, you own him an explanation.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a slight smile flickering on his lips. He’d known for a while now that his brother was interested in the DI, but Mycroft was right. Abandoning the Yard to drown under the cases that were too complex and bizarre for Anderson wasn’t entirely fair. _Oh…this might work._

 

“Mycroft…how’d you like to finally meet Lestrade in person?”Holmes the Younger turns in his seat, the better to look at his brother. “I’m sure he’d be most grateful for your assistance with his unsolved cases. He’s overworked, taking care of his daughter by himself, and lonely since his wife left him. You could really ease his stress, you know. I can picture it, the two of you going over cases in his living room, his daughter drawing you pictures. She’s a lovely little thing despite being ordinary; quite intelligent.” Sherlock pauses, gauging the effect of his words on his brother. Mycroft’s face tightens at the mention of Lestrade’s child, his eyes glazing momentarily. _Too far? John was always the one who was good with tact._

 

Mycroft liked children, a little known fact, but was unable to have any of his own. Sterility had stolen his ability to pass on the genius of the Holmes family, something which stung only slightly less than his being denied children altogether.

 

“Yes, little Catherine. Cat for short,” adds Sherlock, knowing that he’s crossed an unspoken boundary by alluding to Mycroft’s infertility. Tempting his brother was low, but this was the way things were between them; petty, and sometimes cruel. _The way it’s always been. Probably always will be._

 

“I cannot possibly set aside the time necessary for such collaboration,” returns Mycroft weakly, the sadness and longing in his voice undetectable to anyone but Sherlock. The older man tucks a hand into his waistcoat, downing the rest of his brandy and resuming his seat across from Sherlock at the table.

 

“I’m sure your consultations can be flexible. Maybe you can meet in the afternoon over coffee, or maybe lunch? You could take him to that private restaurant you favor,” suggests Sherlock, trying to move things along.

 

“He would not find that too forward?” Mycroft’s tentativeness surprises Sherlock, though he continues without a hitch.

 

“Mycroft, he’s aware that you’re my brother, so he automatically assumes that we’re alike, and he’s also aware that you’re an important government official. I’m sure he won’t object to your usual pomp and flare.” Sherlock gestures to the expensive furniture and fabrics. _Though he might mind your habit of abducting people._

 

“Hmm, he would be wrong with that first respect. You and I are considerably different,” concludes Mycroft, with a smirk. _And what’s that supposed to mean?_

 

“Shall we let him find out for himself?” Sherlock pulls out his phone, voice brusque. “Do let’s. In fact, he contacted me earlier this morning with a new case.” Sherlock thumbs out a message quickly, setting his phone back on the table before Mycroft even managed a complaint.

 

“Sherlock, I do not appreciate you promising things of me without my consent. I—,” halts Mycroft, pausing as Sherlock’s phone begins to ring. His eyes fix on it as it continues to vibrate and flash, staring at Sherlock after a few seconds.

 

The caller ID reads DI Lestrade. Sherlock smirks lightly at his brother’s sudden silence letting the phone ring for a few moments longer before picking it up.

 

“Holmes,” answers Sherlock, putting the phone on speaker. The husky tones of the DI fill the room.

 

“First off, what do you mean you’ll ‘be out of the country’? Secondly, for how long? And just what in God’s name do you mean when you say you’ll be ‘sending a competent replacement’?” Sherlock can almost see Lestrade’s anxious face-rubbing through the phone. _How absurd._

 

“First off, I mean that I will be leaving the country. I’d thought I’d made that clear? Secondly, I’ll be gone for a while, and when I say that I’ll send a competent replacement, I am of course referring to my brother. Honestly, Lestrade, he’s better than I am when it comes to detective-work. You’ll be in good hands.” Sherlock lets his eyes dart a glance at Mycroft, relishing his brother’s paling complexion. The sigh that exits the phone is weary, creating a static crackle.

 

“Alright, um…Christ. When does he want to meet? And does he understand that there’ll be a lot of sifting through paper? God, I feel a migraine coming on just thinking about it.”

 

“I’m sure he can handle it, and how about, say noon? He will, of course, be picking you up from the Yard for lunch.” Sherlock shoots Mycroft a smug grin, mouthing the words ‘ _won’t you?_ ’.

 

“Noon? I’ll see if I can get away from my desk at all today. If not noon would later tonight work? I dunno if he’d want to meet me at the Yard or if he’d prefer meeting elsewhere.”

 

“I’ll text you his number. If noon is good, let him know. If noon doesn’t work, text him the time you want to meet. You two can work out the place. He’ll be taking over for me until I get back. He’s almost always available. Feel free to call or text him any time,” Sherlock says, avoiding Mycroft’s glare. _If looks could kill, brother dearest._

 

“Tell him thanks for me, will you?”

 

“I’m sure he’d much rather hear it from you himself.” Sherlock picks up his mobile, ending the call. He casts a questioning look at Mycroft. “Is this considered matchmaking? I’m rather good at it, aren’t I? I’d make a Grade-A ‘wingman’, as they call it.”

 

Mycroft nearly stutters in shock, luckily closing his mouth before any sound fell from his lips. With a small laugh Sherlock sends off the text containing Mycroft’s number to Lestrade.

 

“Good God, what have you gotten me into,” mutters Mycroft, running his hands down the sides of his face. At the sound of Sherlock’s text alert, Mycroft looks up quickly. Sherlock glances at the text, throat tightening.

 

**_It’s been a week. You promised_ **

**_me you’d visit._ **

**_-JW_ **

 

“Ah. Doctor Watson, I take it?” Mycroft’s voice regains some of its characteristic sneer. “My assistant had to bring his mobile charger the very first night he arrived at the base. He must have had a lot to say. How often does he text you?”

 

“Every day,” says Sherlock, the despair bleeding into his usual curt tone. _Don’t act as though you’re concerned for me. It doesn’t suit you._

 

“How often do you respond?” Mycroft’s voice reminds Sherlock of every therapist that he’d ever been sent to on behalf of his baffled tutors, the slow and steady voice meant to coax and persuade.

 

“As often as I can bear.” John’s texts never seem angry, but that doesn’t stop his unhappiness from showing through his words. Sherlock cradles his mobile in both of his hands, a thumb stroking the case.

 

“Will you see him today,” queries Mycroft softly.

 

“Yes,” replies Sherlock, his hands moving much more slowly as he types and sends his response, as though his own sluggish pace could transfer to the world around him. _More absurd thoughts._

****

**_On my way._ **

**_-SH_ **

 

With a rather reluctant glance at his brother Sherlock stands, slipping his phone into his pocket as he collects his coat from the back of the heavy chair. He pulls it on, abandoning his usual flourish, taking comfort in its familiar embrace. With his coat brushing his legs and his phone in his pocket, he realizes how vulnerable he feels without his scarf. More so without the loyal soldier he calls friend at his side, his guard and his guide through the fragile world of human interaction. He walks, feeling off-balance without John, stopping at the door when Mycroft speaks, the handle halfway turned in his hand.

 

“Sherlock, do not leave him in the dark. Dire consequences come of hiding things from those we care about.” Mycroft looks down smoothing out the sleeve of his jacket, knowing the hypocrisy of his words.

 

“I’ll tell him what I can. I’ll send reports whenever I’m able. Good luck with Lestrade. He can be obtuse sometimes.” The handle makes its full turn. Sherlock pulls the door open, hearing his brother’s reply.

 

“I will be sure to inform Gregory of your sentiments.”

 

With a quiet click, Sherlock closes the door behind him, walking briskly down the lavish corridors, skipping steps and taking shortcuts, heading towards the nearest exit in the maze-like building. Heading towards John.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 

The tired face of his friend gazes back at him as he attempts to swallow down enough of his guilt to speak. John Watson sits, hair slightly rumpled and clothes creased, a cooling tray of food in front of him, the long tables of the mess hall making it appear that they’re up to their waists in a sea of tan. _Sands of Afghanistan? Say something. Anything, you daft idiot. Tell him you’re sorry._

 

“How—” Sherlock clears his throat. “How are you?” _What a stupid question. Why don’t you ask him about his limp for all the good it’d do?_

 

John lets his face slide into a strained smile, eyes still cold, still hurt. He licks his lips thoughtfully as his smile fades, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him, looking so… _pathetic? Pathetic is not a word that’s associated with John Watson_ , thinks Sherlock. _No, he looks fed up._ Sherlock resists the urge to reach out and touch those steady hands, to comfort, to console.

 

“I’m managing. Been better,” says John, nodding gently. “What about you? What’s the Great Sherlock Holmes been up to? Anything exciting? It’s barely been a week and I already miss it. The thrill. The chase.” John’s expression is nearly unreadable. _Sadness, yes. What else?_

 

“Exciting? No. Just been going over paper trails. Everything’s been dead ends, really. You’re not missing anything. He’s too good at covering his tracks,” sighs Sherlock, chewing at his bottom lip. John narrows his eyes.

 

“Moriarty? Of course he is. He’s like you.” Sherlock frowns slightly. “Don’t look at me like that. That’s not what I meant. It’s just…you’re both geniuses. If you didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t be. But wherever you were hiding would probably have some ironic meaning behind it. You both like that kind of stuff.” John is leaning forward slightly, his expression bordering on eager, hands resting flat on the table.

 

“John, you make us sound like—“ John cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

 

“Sherlock, I’m just telling you what I’ve seen. Observed. Both of you are…showoffs. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” John adds quickly. “If he’s playing games with you like he was before, then he’d have contacted you. Given you clues. Both of you want to prove to the other that you’re clever. So far you’ve gotten nothing. Tell me what we can deduce from that, Sherlock.” John sits back, hands on his thighs. “You’ve assumed to some extent that this is part of his game. No clues, no contact. Come on, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock grimaces, brow furrowed in frustration. _Dammit…_

 

“It means that he’s actually worried. That we’ve hit a little too close to home, so the bird has flown the coop until things are safe,” concludes Sherlock, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

 

“Exactly. You’ve got him running scared, Sherlock. It’s no longer a matter of watching you dance. He’s not flaunting his escape, or doing anything to draw attention to himself.” John’s eyes are bright, his body shifting excitedly in his seat. Sherlock allows himself a smile at the sight.

 

“Brilliant,” says Sherlock, voice sincere.

 

“What?” John is caught off-guard with the praise, still caught up in their progress.

 

“I called you brilliant. You can see things that my own…pride leave me blind to.” The words feel awkward in Sherlock’s mouth, but they need to be said.

 

“Your pride and your bloody cheekbones. Both leave you oblivious to some things. Luckily you have me to make up for it,” John responds casually, leaning on an elbow.

 

Sherlock chuckles, the sound coming from deep in his chest, as John smiles back, this time the smile reaches his eyes, and for a moment it feels as though nothing has happened, and they’re merely joking with each other at another crime scene. _This is what I’m giving up by leaving you behind. All of your optimism and radiance._

 

“How’s Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft?” John regains some of his serious manner, but his eyes are still smirking smugly.

 

“Mrs. Hudson is well. I’ve told her you’re away visiting your sister. As for Mycroft, I may or may not have coerced him into taking over for me at the Yard.” Sherlock’s eyes flick towards his hands.

 

“Coerced him how?” John raises an eyebrow.

 

“Through Lestrade. Mycroft is rather attracted to him, so I told him that this way he could finally meet Lestrade, and…,” trails Sherlock, leaving the rather obvious conclusion for John to make.

 

“So Mycroft’s gay, then?” _And you went with the wrong obvious conclusion, but I guess that’s to be expected._

 

“Really, John, human sexuality is so much more complex than that. Mycroft is considered to be a pansexual-panromantic. He’s attracted to different people, regardless of their gender or sexuality, and he can pursue them for either a purely romantic relationship or a sexual relationship, or both. At the moment, he’s pursuing Lestrade romantically. Or will be once he gets over his schoolboy’s crush shyness. If things prove to be fruitful on that front, the relationship may move towards being sexual.”

 

“Well, I mean, good luck to him with his…endeavor. As far as I’ve seen Lestrade is straight, so erm…best wishes?” John’s mouth quirks into a grin.

 

“Don’t underestimate Mycroft’s ability to seduce, John. He’s had quite an interesting string of lovers, each more unlikely than the last. All for politics, of course. Though I suspect that this is less for sport than it is a genuine attraction.” _Definitely genuine, since there is no real political advantage for having a DI in your pocket or your bed._

 

“Since we’re here, what are you then? We went over the whole ‘no boyfriends’ and ‘girlfriends aren’t my area’ briefly.”

 

“I’m an asexual-aromantic. I’ve no interest in sex, or any sexual attraction to either gender, nor any interest in the romantic aspects of relationships such as kissing, cuddling, etc.”

 

“In your ‘professional’ opinion, where would I be classed?” John leans forward, eager, the look on his face saying _Diagnose me, have at it, then_.

 

“Hmm. Heterosexual-heteroromantic nursing a platonic bond,” says Sherlock. _No past sexual encounters with males, nor any apparent desire towards them. A long history of sexual and romantic encounters with females. Too caught up in catching criminals with me to hold down a steady relationship._

 

John purses his lips nodding slowly.

 

“Right. Ok. I’m assuming you’re referring to yourself when you talk about the platonic bond,” says John, eyes flicking to Sherlock’s.

 

“Of course.” _Who else?_

 

“I still like ‘bromance’ better. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the friendship necklaces,” teases John, smiling widely. He raises his eyebrows, putting his hands flat on the table again. “So. Back to business. What’s the plan for finding Moriarty? We know he’s worried, and we know that he’s got people virtually everywhere. How do we tackle a problem we can’t see?”

 

“We’ll have to wait for a piece of his web to reveal itself. If we start there, it’ll be easy to uncover the rest. Well, I say easy.” Sherlock sighs, tapping a knuckle on the table. “There was the smallest whisper about the crime bosses in Germany. They were nervous about something.”

 

“You think it’s to do with Moriarty, then? Is he a threat to them? Or do they work for him?” John’s mood is now alert as he gazes intently at Sherlock, as though he can understand more fully by staring.

 

“It’s too soon to say, though I’m willing to bet the latter. I’m considering leaving for Germany soon and wanted to hear your thoughts on it.” _Moment of truth, as they say._

 

“No,” says John, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t like it one bit, but odds are that you’ve already made up your mind to go. Just be careful, Sherlock. Don’t do anything to piss any more people off. And text me. It’d be nice to have something to do. A case would be great.”

 

“With regards to the first: I’ll try,” grins Sherlock. “As to the second: of course. Though when you say you’ve nothing to do, I think you’re exaggerating. It’s obvious that you’ve been exerting yourself.” _The way you walk and gesture says full body exercise, rather than just specific muscle groups. Stiffness about the torso seems proportionate to that of the rest of your body, so I’d hazard that your ribs are giving you little-to-no trouble._

 

“Yeah, by day two I was bored stiff, so I asked if I could join the men in their routine. I can keep up with them well enough, even though I’m one of the oldest there. Being a detective’s sidekick has its perks. All of the running, climbing, the occasional scrap. Keeps me fit.” John smiles again.

 

“Your ribs don’t appear to be paining you, despite the exercise.” _Good. Healing._

 

“Mycroft had ‘Anthea’,” John mimes air-quotes, “bring me something for them. Works like a charm. It’s nothing like anything I’ve encountered before. Must be a new development that’s not available to the public.”

 

Sherlock shifts his eyes to the side.

 

“Yes, must be,” Sherlock agrees. _This particular pill and I are well acquainted._ *

 

“Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s working.” John pauses. “They’re moving me soon, you know. In a few days, I think. Just when I’d nearly gotten used to this place.” He takes in a slow breath, eyes glazing momentarily, thoughts far away before he snaps back to alertness, shooting a weak smile at Sherlock. _How can you still smile after all that’s happened, John Watson?_

 

Sherlock gives a nod and a small smile. He and Mycroft had discussed John’s transfer earlier in the week.

 

“The place that you’re being moved to will be more comfortable,” assures Sherlock. _It should be quite sufficient. All the amenities of our flat, except with an armed guard or two._

 

“I don’t care if it’s comfortable, you great lump. I’m worried about you getting yourself killed while I’m sitting on my arse. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if that happened. You can be a bloody idiot sometimes. I need to know that you’ll look after yourself.” John’s pleading eyes stare into Sherlock’s, begging a promise. _I can guarantee nothing. It’s impossible to say that a mishap won’t—_

 

“Just say it, Sherlock,” John sighs, his insight into Sherlock’s mind surprising the detective once more. “Statistical improbabilities aside.  Just tell me you’ll be careful and won’t get yourself killed, so that I can sleep tonight.”

 

The taller man purses his lips for a moment, looking at the table-top, a weight in his chest _. This will bring comfort. Surely he is worth the lie?_

 

“I’ll be careful. I won’t get myself killed.” Sherlock looks up. John nods, a slow nod of resignation and trust.

 

“Thank you.” John is still, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought, the fluorescent light washing out his face and hair. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a blue bundle loosely clasped in his hand. “You’ll be needing this where you’re going.” He proffers the scarf, waiting for Sherlock to take it. _No._

 

“Keep it. I’ll be fine. I want you to have it.” Sherlock pushes the bundle back at John.

 

“Nonsense. You love this thing. I’ll keep it for you until you get back.”

 

Sherlock’s mobile goes off, the alert he’d set to ensure he made his flight in time. He looks at John, whose face is falling.

 

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of things you need to do before you get on your plane. Text me when you land. I want to know what’s going on every step of the way,” John says, his face unhappy, his shoulders slumping.

 

“Of course, John.” Sherlock stands, John standing with him, each shifting awkwardly on their feet. John moves in for a hug, the embrace taut with unsaid admonitions of _Be safe. Don’t be an arse; make sure you eat_. Sherlock uncertainly returns the hug, a sense of foreboding building in his gut. They break the embrace, each moving quickly away from each other to distract themselves from their parting. Sherlock strides out of the mess hall, the doors swinging closed behind him on the figure of a soldier alone in a sea of tan.

XXXXXXX

Greg Lestrade, sits behind his desk at the Yard, massaging his temples with eyes closed. He’s been up since before dawn, called in on a report of a break-in that left a mother, father, and youngest daughter stabbed to death; the elder daughter had sustained some severe wounds, but will live. The body of the youngest daughter was the worst, and he couldn’t help but feel sick, himself being a father. Aside form the massive amounts of blood around the crime-scene, there was surprisingly little to go on. He cracks an eye open, looking at his phone, Sherlock’s text still up on the screen. _This’ll be a leap._

 

With a weary shake of his head, and a glance at the picture of his daughter on his desk, Greg copies the number onto a sheet of paper, adding it to his contact’s list with a tired sigh. He begins the message.

 

**Cleared for noon.**

**\- GL**

 

He barely sets down his mobile, moving to sort through more files, before it goes off. _That was quick…_

 

**Excellent. A car will arrive**

**for you 5 minutes to 12. I**

**already have a restaurant in**

**mind, if that is acceptable for**

**you?**

**\- MH**

Greg raises his eyebrows at the message. _So making decisions without consulting the people involved is a Holmes thing. At least he’s mentioning it now._

 

**Perfectly fine. See you**

**then.**

**\- GL**

 

The DI returns to his duties, never suspecting the tremble of Mycroft’s hands as he reads the message.

XXXXXXXXXXX

* In Sherlock’s 20’s he was a frequent user of recreational drugs in his attempts to escape boredom, cocaine in particular, though he’d dabbled in morphine as well. He was arrested during a drugs bust that DI Greg Lestrade had lead, but was spared jail-time because Lestrade recognized the genius in the young man when he correctly deduced the turmoil of the DI’s home-life. On the condition that he go to rehab, Lestrade promised to provide Sherlock with cases, and Sherlock was almost eager in his compliance.  While in rehab, Mycroft finally stepped in, speeding along Sherlock’s recovery by introducing this mystery drug into the equation. The pill eased his weeks of withdrawal, keeping him from giving up and returning to the narcotics. Sherlock observed its effects: Pain relief, accelerated cell repair, and improved blood filtering. He had meant to perform tests on it after his release, but was unable to steal an extra pill, or find any traces in his bloodstream.


	14. Seb

11th of March

Back-Up Flat #1

2:47 am

 

Sebastian sits on the couch in the back-up flat, some raunchy late-night talk show blaring as he finally hears the sound of the door to Jim’s office opening. He glances up to see Jim, the small man’s frame shuddering with exhaustion as he makes his way to the couch, flopping back into the deep cushions as he pulls his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them as he stares blankly at the television screen in front of him, his eyes rimmed with dark circles.

 

Sebastian grimaces as he tries to keep his pity at bay _. Working yourself to death, and for what? You don’t have to do this. We could just go somewhere far away_. With a deep breath Sebastian tips the smaller man against him, smelling the faintly stale cologne that Jim had put on the Sunday before.

 

It’s been the same for the past week. Jim goes into his office early in the morning, and doesn’t come out until late at night, movements sluggish, clothes and hair rumpled. He never says anything, just sits down next to Sebastian, staring until exhaustion takes over and he falls asleep. The first night this happened, the night after their anniversary celebration, Seb had carried Jim into his room. The rest of the nights he merely pulled Jim close, falling asleep sitting up with Jim curled on his lap, though he would always be back in his office by the time Sebastian woke up.

 

Jim goes lax against Seb’s side, his head leaning against the sniper’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, his legs still held to his body by his arms.

 

Sebastian nearly decides against it, but he calls softly to the crimelord. “Jim?”

 

“Hmm,” Jim hums quietly against Seb’s side.

 

“Will things be ok?” He swallows, trying to get a better grip on what he wants to say. “I mean _really_ ok?” He let’s his cheek drop down onto Jim’s head, the edge of his jaw touching the warm flesh of Jim’s hairline.

 

“Probably not. Though I never did like happy endings. Mmno. Things probably won’t be.” Jim’s voice vibrates against Seb’s skin, warm air puffing against it for every word spoken. Sebastian stays quiet, unable to find words for the tightening of the knot in his being. _I can’t do this._

 

“Sebby, you’re brooding again,” Jim teases when his sniper doesn’t respond, tapping a finger against Seb’s chest. Sebastian purses his lips, looking off to the left, rather than down at Jim’s tired form.

 

“You’ll be fine, tiger. I’ll make sure of that,” Jim mumbles, snuggling more closely, the lulling warmth between them dulling his words. Seb grits his teeth to quiet the force of his words.

 

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Jim. That’s not what concerns me.” Seb hopes the angry tremble in his jaw isn’t traveling down his body.

 

“But that’s what concerns me,” Jim growls, digging his nails into Sebastian’s arm. The sniper is taken aback, glancing down at the small man.

 

“Ok, Jim,” Seb soothes, feeling sick to his stomach, jaw flexing anxiously.

 

“Last Sunday I’d said it’d happen soon. Soon is now, Sebby.” Jim traces circles onto the back of Seb’s hand. Sebastian breathes in deeply, trying to ignore the prickle of tears in his eyes.

 

“Of course it is,” says Seb, the hollow sound carrying his anguish. Jim lifts his head, looking at his sniper, his eyes like onyx as they take in the larger man’s face.

 

“I want to remember you,” Jim breathes, his eyes unfocused with something the sniper can’t fathom. Seb feels tears welling, his jaw clenching as he forces his breathing to slow. Jim places a gentle hand against Seb’s face, brushing a thumb over his lips as the tears finally spill down the blond’s face. Sebastian looks up into the cold eyes of his crimelord, the paleness of his flesh a ghostly glow through the haze of his tears. _How did things get this bad?_

 

Seb holds his breath, waiting for the tears to stop, closing his eyes tightly. _Save your tears for later._ Jim trails a hand over Seb’s shoulder, that lightest of touches calming his torment. _Disconnect. Calm down._

 

“Everything’s been taken care of. All you need to do is drop me off,” Jim murmurs, stroking Sebastian’s hair back from his forehead, the sniper’s flesh radiating the heat that comes of a broken composure.

 

Seb continues to stare murder into the blackness of his eyelids, counting out the measure of his heartbeat, feeling it flutter as Jim’s hand leaves his shoulder, the other spiriting away so quickly that Seb could almost swear it was still tangled in his hair, the sniper’s calm falling away like a severed stage curtain. _It shouldn’t be like this_ , he thinks to himself as he forces his emotional slipup into a body bag. _Jim always has everything under control._

 

“No,” croaks Seb, his throat still tight. Jim responds from behind him, voice amused.

 

“No?”

 

“I won’t just drop you off. I’m staying with you while it’s done.” Sebastian’s voice is firm, leaving no room for argument if he were talking to any other man. _Jim isn’t any other man._

 

“I was hoping you would,” Jim says softly. “Now, enough quibbling like we’re in a bloody soap opera. Let’s go. I’m not packing anything.”

 

Seb stands with a small smile, turning to see Jim near the door, slipping into the single pair of civilian shoes that he had brought with him when they abandoned the other flat. Sebastian sniffs, roughly drying at his face with a hand, striding over to open the door, going down the cement steps, looking back to see Jim as he stands illuminated against the soft, undulating light of the television’s glare. _What if this is the last time you know who I am? I’ll be another stranger._ He forces that thought down.

 

“Hurry up. I thought you were done with the reluctance?” Seb’s teasing earns him a dirty look and a profane gesture.

 

“Fuck off. I’m locking the door. Wouldn’t want you to come back to a burgled flat, now would we?” Jim’s voice lilts, his ironic tone returning along with his sarcasm, leaving Sebastian suppressing a grin as he stares at Jim’s back, the man’s outline more difficult to see now that the only light in the area comes from a lone streetlamp, it’s illumination unable to dip into the doorway. _As if it would matter to me if it were broken into._

 

“Christ,” Seb mutters, pulling out his lighter, flicking the fuse. “Might as well burn it all now. This flat’s a piece of shit anyways.”

 

“You can do it after you get back,” promises Jim, trotting down the steps, slapping Sebastian on the back at he moves to get into the passenger side of the dodgy old car they’d been using for the past week. _Going for a 3 am drive. Perfect,_ Seb jokes humorlessly.

 

He pulls away from the flat, the headlights of the cars passing opposite glinting off the remnants of his tears.

 

“Where’re we headed?” Seb’s eyes search out Jim’s.

 

“Turn here, and then take the 3rd exit.” Seb purses his lips, decidedly ignoring Jim’s evasive answer. He makes the turn with a little more force than necessary, causing them both to lean heavily into the pull of the momentum.

 

Jim quirks an eyebrow when Sebastian looks over at him, a smile on his face, eyes bright. Seb grins back, taking the exit in the same fashion, stepping on the gas, his finger jabbing the disc player on, Rammstein playing loudly as they speed down the road, hearts beating wildly as they sing, the guitar vibrating in their chests. Jim hates Rammstein. _Du hast mich_.

 

Seb rolls down the windows, music spilling out, cool wind buffeting them, flicking his blond locks back from his forehead, Jim’s own dark hair fluttering gently. He glances around, surprised that they weren’t being chased by the police yet. If they did show up, he’d sure as hell give them a run for their money. Seb catches movement from Jim, laughing freely as the smaller man sticks his head out of the window, yelling wordlessly into the night. Jim reseats himself, cheeks flushed, slightly breathless as he gestures.

 

“Here.”

 

Seb slows down quickly, their bodies straining against the seatbelts as they pull up outside what looks like a small clinic. Seb turns the music off, the sudden silence somehow more disruptive than their noise. The neighborhood around them is completely dark except for the clinic and the widely spaced streetlamps, the white noise of generators and bugs creating a sleepy atmosphere.

 

They sit for a few moments, taking in the mural of smiling children on the outside of the building, the contrast of the shadows and harsh fluorescent illumination giving the painted faces odd distortions. Seb turns to Jim, eyebrows raised.

 

“Eerie,” he comments jokingly, face mostly straight as Jim rolls his eyes. With a steady hand he opens his door, watching Jim’s head rise over the top of the car as he exits as well. Both doors close firmly, the ominous effect of the echo impressing itself upon both of them.

 

Sebastian steps up onto the curb, waiting for Jim to join him, giving a nod of encouragement which Jim promptly dismisses as he walks towards the door, leaving Seb to jog to catch up. _Prick._

 

He catches up just as Jim pulls the door open, letting himself in behind him. The place smells unnervingly clean _. Looks_ unnervingly clean. The kind of clean you get after cleaning up after murder. Bleach and steam sort of clean. As Seb glances around, he counts 5 exam rooms lining a small corridor, more hideous murals glaring down at them. The corridor bisects at the end, but it’s unlikely to have more than two doors on each side, judging by the size of the building.

 

“Anyone in,” Jim calls sarcastically, the imperious nature he gets when dealing with his employees blatant in his tone. A light shuffling noise comes from down the corridor, around the left hand corner. Seb tenses, assuming a slightly more wide-legged stance, and Jim tilts his head as the sound of a door opening out of sight. A portly man in a janitor’s uniform rounds the corner, approaching them, face set in a false smile of greeting.

 

“Mr. Moriarty. Please, this way. The storage room is set up for you.” The man signals for them to follow. Seb frowns slightly. Jim grimaces.

 

“Ugh, I _hate_ storage rooms. No _class,_ ” Jim whines, miming gagging himself with his finger as he follows the man, Sebastian close on his heels. They enter a small room, the boxes of medical supplies stacked against the wall, a low table near the back, harsh lights ringing the scene. The man motions to the table.

 

“If you will, Mr. Moriarty,” he says, collecting items from various boxes. Jim sighs, walking over and laying down on the table, settling down exaggeratedly.

 

“You are his transport?” The question is directed at Sebastian, who nods quickly, realizing he doesn’t actually know where he’s meant to take Jim after. He glances at Jim, who beckons to him from where he’s reclined.

 

“The address is in an envelope I left in the car, along with a few other things.” Jim’s eyes have that light in them. That light that he gets right before he does something incredibly risky that he knows the sniper won’t like. Jim pulls out a folded stack of papers from his back pocket, handing them to the man as he steps close.

 

The man stuffs the papers into the breast pocket of his uniform, rotating Jim’s left arm to expose the vessels in the crook of his elbow, wiping at the flesh with an alcohol wipe he’d had balled in his fist. Seb stands at the end of the table that Jim’s head rests on, watching calmly as an IV port is placed in Jim’s arm, the needle sliding cleanly into his flesh. The crimelord doesn’t flinch _. Normally you would’ve been whining like a little bitch right about now. I suppose normal exists, even for us_.

 

“This process will take a few hours. You may want to sit,” the man says to Sebastian, indicating stack of chairs in the corner. The janitor fetches his own wheeled stool from under the table as Seb sits on the opposite side of the table, on Jim’s right hand side. Jim turns his head to look at the sniper, his eyes looking odd, an uncertain smiles quirking his lips. _Don’t you dare look afraid. This was your brilliant idea_.

 

“What’s he going to use on you?” Seb watches the man attach an IV tube, a prickle going down his back. Jim shakes his head slightly.

 

“S’not important.” Jim chews at his lip lightly, eyes anxious. “Just something that’s been in the works for years.”

 

“Right,” Seb says quickly, nodding. “But it’d be nice to have a feel of what exactly’s going to happen.”

 

Jim smiles. “Chemistry was never your forte, Sebastian. Leave that to me…but essentially…I will undergo a combination of hypnosis and my own personal brand of hallucinogenic. Mr. Purcell here will read me the papers that I wrote, and in doing so will replace—well, _overlay_ everything I remember with the false memories that I’ve scripted. Easy peasy,” he murmurs, looking at the ceiling again _. Christ, sounds like something out of a bad thriller movie_.

 

Seb stares at Jim’s face, feeling his stomach turn at the prospect. “So, erm,” he pauses, not sure he wants to hear the answer. “Is it reversible?”

 

“You will need to remain silent from this point onward,” the man interjects. His gaze is stern, and Seb resists the urge to tell him to kindly fuck off. Seb looks at Jim, hoping for an answer to his question, but the crimelord is still looking resolutely at the ceiling. Jim taps at the table with his right hand, turning it palm up, turning to look at Sebastian. Without hesitation, Seb places his hand in Jim’s, gripping it tightly. He thinks back to Jim’s words: _I want to remember you_.

 

Looking at him you wouldn’t know it, but Jim is shaking, his hand trembling softly in Seb’s, his nails digging into his sniper’s flesh. There’s a soft desperation in his eyes that nearly makes Seb stand up and call the entire thing off. The man looks away from their exchange, fetching an IV stand and an IV bag plump with an underwhelming clear liquid, connecting it to the port deftly. _Janitor by day, experimental drug expert by night?_

 

“In order for me to induce a hypnotic state, all distractions and external stimuli must be removed.” He glances at their hands. Seb reluctantly lets go, his hand clenching into a fist in his lap, as though he can still feel Jim’s fingers against his palm. He’s glad that Jim can’t feel how anxious he is, his heart thudding almost violently against his chest. _Fuck, he’s going through with it_.

 

“Now, I would like for you to close your eyes. Do whatever you need to be comfortable.” Jim adjusts slightly, letting his head fall to the right. Sebastian half expects him to open his eyes. The man’s monotonous voice washes over them once more.

 

“Focus on relaxing your muscles, starting from your head and finishing with your toes. All tension is releasing from your body. You feel tranquil.” The man pauses, giving Jim time to let his concentration move down his body. Sebastian frowns. Jim looks almost dead, still and pale.

 

“I want you to think about a place where you are happy. Can you picture it?”

 

“Yes…” Jim trails, voice listless, face slack.

 

“Describe where you are.”

 

“The flat…with Sebastian…sleeping…” The faintest of smiles curls Jim’s lips. The sniper tries not to smile back, thinking of the way Jim had slept without being plagued by the nightmare the time Seb had hijacked Jim’s bed after the sofa was charred.

 

“Let that feeling of happiness, of content wash over you now. Let it fill you up, let it make you feel weightless.” Jim’s breathing is slow and deep. Seb’s hands are restless in his lap, his gaze flicking between Jim and the man. He traps his tongue between his teeth, biting slightly. He looks on with morbid fascination.

 

He doesn’t trust hypnotism. He’s seen it done; doesn’t doubt its power. Seen a man stab himself under its influence. It’s just one of those things that you don’t mess with, like Ouija boards and voodoo. _Bad enough that it’s hypnosis. Now there’re drugs involved…_

 

As if his thoughts were a cue, the man begins to administer the drug, setting Jim’s manuscript on the table, giving one last bit of instruction before sitting down to truly begin.

 

“I will count down from 10. When I reach 0, you will be asleep, your mind open and receptive to all you are about to hear. Understand?”

 

“Yes,” Jim replies without expression, his accent slightly more pronounced.

 

“10.” _Everything will be fine. He knows what he’s getting himself into._

 

“9.” _Fucking hell, what are you getting yourself into, Jim?_

“8.” _When we’d talked about it before, I’d thought you were joking. Back in Thailand._

 

“7.” _Why didn’t you consult me about this?_

 

“6.” _Because you knew I’d say no…_

 

“5.” _And you just have to get whatever you want, don’t you?_

 

“4.” _Oh, I’m Jim Moriarty, I do what I want. Fuck off._

 

“3.” _Jesus, Jim._ Seb’s fingers are almost numb where they’re clasped in his lap.

 

“2.” _Fucking wanker._

 

“1.” _You enjoy giving me anxiety, don’t you?_

 

“0.” Seb holds his breath. Jim’s sighs, limbs limp, breathing slow. _Fuck. This is it._

 

“You are receptive to all you are about to hear,” the man intones, putting on reading glasses he pulls from his pocket, picking up the manuscript. He begins to read.

 

“You are Greyson Philips, born to Victor and Terry Philips,” the man says clearly.

 

 _Greyson? Seriously?_ Seb doesn’t roll his eyes, though. He leans back, resting his arms in a folded position across his chest. Anything to brace himself for what he knows will hurt to hear.

 

 _I’m in for quite a story_. The man reads on.

 

2.3 hours later

 

Sebastian’s head is in his hands, palms applying a steady pressure against his eyelids as the man folds the manuscript. His head feels achy, the sudden influx of so much information leaving him tense and stressed. _The fucking trigger phrase for your old self to come back…you fucking would._

 

“I’m going to count backwards from 10, and when I reach 0, you will remain asleep, but completely under your own volition. Do you understand, Mr. Philips?” Seb feels a twinge of panic at the change of the way the man addresses Jim. “You will wake in 4 hours time.”

 

“Yes,” Jim/Greyson Philips replies.

 

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0…” The man watches J-…watches Greyson closely as he comes out of the hypnotic state.

 

Without noticing, Sebastian leans closer as Jim/Greyson stirs for a moment, the look of wrongness about him fading as his eyelids flutter gently, a soft exhale parting his lips. _Just asleep. Not just asleep. A fucking different person if this bloke’s done his job right._

 

The needle is removed, it’s length leaving a small red circle of blood, which burgeons before it’s wiped away, a cloth bandage applied. The janitor looks at Sebastian, putting his glasses away in his pocket again, standing.

 

“The drug will wear off quickly— within 4 hours— but he may experience some vivid dreams for the next few days,” the man says as he put away the IV stand, disposing of everything else into a biohazard bin. “When he wakes, he will think and remember living the life that he wrote for himself. Hopefully the bleed-through of his old life will be minimal. During the testing, the memory leakages lead to some disastrous situations.”

 

Seb doesn’t reply to the man, feeling knots twisting in his stomach. He gets to his feet, stretching his tired muscles momentarily before bending to check Jim over. Slow pulse, but nothing else seems out of place. He glances at the man’s back before tucking the manuscript into his waistband, picking Jim up. No sense in leaving something like that with someone not entirely to be trusted. Besides, Sebastian wants to read over it again on his own time. He makes his way to the door, cradling Jim against his chest as he twists the door handle, entering the corridor, making a right towards the front doors, which he toes open with his shoe.

 

Jim ( _Never going to start calling him Greyson, that’s for fucking sure_ ) lolls in his arms, legs and arms swinging softly with the sniper’s strides as they approach the car, his body loose, all resistance gone. Jim is more like putty than person as Seb settles him into the passenger seat with some careful maneuvering. The sniper leans over Jim, feeling the heat of the smaller man’s breath against him as he fastens the seatbelt around Jim’s waist, the shoulder strap tucked under his chin.

 

With a sigh Seb sits on his heels, kneeling on the asphalt, staring thoughtfully at the slouched form before him, his teeth kneading at his lips in his distress. Jim’s head rests on his own shoulder, his mouth slightly open, hands curled at his sides _. As adorable as it is to see you like a sleeping toddler in a booster seat, I think I’d prefer you awake and…not Greyson._

 

Seb stands, putting Jim’s dangling left hand on his lap, out of the way as he closes the door, rounding to the driver’s side, sliding in quickly. He pulls the door closed, checking the glove compartment, down the sides of the seats, looking for the packet that Jim said he’d left for Sebastian.

 

“C’mon, you didn’t bloody hide it, did you?” He leans over, arm brushing Jim’s legs as he reaches under the passenger seat, pausing as his fingers grasp at a thick packet. He grabs it, noticing the small envelop taped to the outside. He frowns lightly, plucking it off and opening it. He unfolds the slightly creased paper.

 

**Sebastian,**

**First things first. I’m sorry, Seb. Knew this wouldn’t go over well with you, but it’s my nature to go against common sense. Well, the common common sense. I can’t promise you that things won’t get worse, because undoubtedly they will. What I’ve got before me is essentially an unknown. What you’ve got before you is most certainly going to be a trial. Keep strong, pet.**

**What I need from you now is fairly straightforward. Complete my little checklist, then return to the flat without me. Keep to your routine if it makes you feel better, while I’m away. Know this: That this is the point in my game when things are their most dire. I’ve enjoyed making Sherlock Holmes dance, but now is time for me to cut the strings. To see how well my little Pinocchio can function without me there to tempt and guide him.**

**He will look for you. I’ve had someone matching your description take a flight to Cape Town under an obviously false name. Mycroft Holmes will no doubt be tracking this individual. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t risk yourself by trying to keep an eye on me. It’s all handled. In the event of my capture, you are on no account to try and rescue me. They can’t find you, Seb. I won’t have it.**

**Keep your bloody sniping arse out of harm’s way,**

**Jim**

 

Seb feels the frustrated tears try to make a reappearance, but he clears his throat and rolls his shoulders, setting the letter on the dashboard to open the packet. He tips the contents into his lap. ID’s, a passport, a wallet, a key-ring plus two keys, a knife, and a slip of folded paper with Sebastian’s name on the outside.

 

**The simple bits**

**1.** **Kill Mr. Purcell. I may or may not have revealed something damning in his presence. Dispose of the knife as appropriate.**

**2.** **Destroy my script.**

**3.** **Drive me to the address on the ID, using the keys to get inside.**

**4.** **Once in the flat, put me on the couch, setting out the laptop that you’ll find there. Leave a plate of half-eaten food or something. It needs to look as though I fell asleep while using the computer.**

**5.** **Put the ID’s into the wallet, setting it on the kitchen counter. The passport goes in the miscellaneous drawer, also in the kitchen.**

**6.** **Set the alarm clock in the bedroom for 7am.**

**7.** **Take one of the keys with you, leaving the other on the ring on the counter near the wallet. Don’t use your key to try and visit. As tempting as it may be. It’s for something else.**

**8.** **Lock the door behind you.**

**9.** **Go back to the flat.**

**10.** **Drink beer.**

**11.** **Or whatever it is you do when I’m not there.**

 

Seb lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he slips the items back into the packet, except for the knife. He grips it tightly as he opens his door, swinging his legs out, still shaking his head, a smile on his lips as he walks back up to the clinic, the mural looking somehow more cheerful. He opens the door, listening as he steps quietly down the corridor, rounding the corner. He approaches the door to the storage room, silently twisting the handle and pushing the door open.

 

The janitor glances up from where he stands at the table, eyes dropping to the knife Seb’s hands before they widen. He starts to stutter, extending a hand outwards as he tries to plead for his life. Sebastian closes the door behind him, slapping the flat of the blade against his palm before stalking forward.

 

“N-n-no need f-for this! Come now…! I’ve done all that was asked of me!” The man backs away, bumping into one of the storage shelves, showering himself with packets of gauze. He continues to mutter and whimper. Seb rolls his eyes, pulling the man forward and turning him so that his back is pressed to Sebastian’s front, the knife pressed tightly against the man’s throat.

 

“Of course you did. Thank you for your services,” Seb rasps in his ear, drawing the blade swiftly across the janitor’s neck, feeling the knife cut through the flesh and trachea with ease, the blood spilling rapidly. Luckily, Sebastian remains unstained, except for some arterial spray on his forearm, dropping the man to the floor. He wipes the blade on the man’s trousers, opening a gauze packet to clean off his arm and wrapping it around the knife before exiting the storage room, closing the door for the final time. He bites the inside of his cheek as he walks out of the clinic, glancing around casually. No one about. _Well, this kind of neighborhood, no one would be willing to say if they’d seen anything anyway._

 

He strolls up to the car, getting in with a sigh, tossing the knife onto the floor in the back, starting up the car before fishing the ID out of the packet, glancing at it before tossing it back in. _London address. You’d figure it’d be better to leave London…though I suppose they won’t look here if they think you’ve run off._

 

He pulls away from the clinic, leaving the music off, his unconscious cargo continuing to slumber peacefully as the new day dawns.

 

1 hour and many miles later

 

Seb sits parked outside the tiny flat that the address leads to, staring at it, his left hand pressed to the back of Jim’s right, the warmth of the skin against skin feeling fiery against the cool of the car. The neighborhood is quiet in the soft dawn light, everyone still asleep except for the occasional car. He looks over at Jim, jaw working before he finally pulls away, snatching the key-ring from the dashboard and getting out of the car.

 

With a furtive look he approaches the door, unlocking it and pushing it open softly before returning to the car, cracking open Jim’s door quietly, unbuckling him and pulling him into his arms, carrying him like a sleeping child around to the driver’s side as he opens the door, plucking the packet from the dash and holding it in one hand as he moves to enter the flat.

 

He gropes blindly for a light switch for a few seconds, illuminating a tiny kitchen to the right with a bar counter, a small dining area to the right, straight ahead is the opening to a sitting room, a small corridor leading to the right with the bedroom at the end. He shuts the door, setting the packet on the bar counter, passing into the sitting room, laying Jim down on the low couch carefully. _Not too bad considering how tiny the place is._

 

Sebastian consults the list, standing in the semi-dark of the sitting room. He purposefully skips over looking at number 2. Number 3 is check. He glances around the sitting room, finally turning on the light, even though the pale grey of the morning light is already creeping through the curtains. Spying the laptop on the end table, he picks it up, setting it at an angle on the edge of the coffee table, lid open, before going into the tiny kitchen.

 

He opens a cupboard, finding it stocked, the fridge as well. With his tongue between his teeth he decides on making popcorn, putting it in the microwave to pop as he searches the other cupboards for a large bowl. He eats a few pieces as he dumps the finished contents into the bowl, spending a few seconds looking for a bin to put the empty bag in before he returns to the living room. With a joyless stare, Seb looks down at Jim where he lays, head tipped sideways, shirt slightly lifted, heavy lids dark with exhaustion. _Little fuck_. In a fit of sudden childishness, Seb tosses a piece of popcorn at Jim’s face, letting out a satisfied snort of laughter at the gratifying flinch Jim gives at the light impact.

 

Licking his lips as he grins, Seb chucks a few more pieces around Jim, some on the floor, some on his stomach, quite a few on his chest. _Got to make it look realistic, right?_ He eats a few handfuls of the popcorn before setting the bowl down on the floor near Jim’s head. The sniper lets one of Jim’s hands dangle off the edge of the couch, fingertips just barely resting on the lip of the bowl. _Voila._

 

With a last smirk, he walks into the kitchen, pulling the ID’s and passport from the packet, dropping the latter into a drawer filled with random items, pulling the wallet towards him to deal with the former. Seb bites back a laugh at the picture of Jim on one of the ID’s. _Oh fuck me, look at that. You’re smiling. And it looks so…fake? So hearty? Christ, you fucking…Goddamn, get the picture redone._

 

He slips the ID’s into Jim’s new wallet, the edges of which are already slightly worn, as though he’d bought it second hand. He takes the second key off the key-ring, slipping it into his pocket as he sets the other key next to the wallet. Now just to set the alarm. _Fuck, only 10 minutes to 7._

 

Walking down the tiny corridor, Seb gets his first look at Jim’s new room. He raises his eyebrows, shaking his head as he crosses to the bedside table where the alarm clock sits. He fumbles with it for a few minutes before he manages to set the time, the myriad buttons and switches causing him to swear quietly. _There. Finally_. He hears a soft sound from the sitting room, his head whipping around. _Time to go._

 

Seb exits the bedroom, peeking into the sitting room, seeing Jim stir a little, still mostly asleep. He hurries in silently, pressing his lips affectionately to Jim’s temple, hand resting on the smaller man’s face for what was surely too long. He tears himself away. Turning off all the lights but the one in the living room, Seb quickly vacates the flat, closing the door and locking it just as he hears the alarm in the bedroom go off.

 

He stands on the porch for a moment, staring at the door for a few seconds before crossing to his car, pulling away as the first true rays of sunlight make it over the buildings.

 

He blasts Rammstein all the way back to the flat, alone.


	15. John

**A/N: I am incredibly ashamed of myself for letting this story sit for so long, and hope my readers can forgive me. To be honest, my desire to write dried up once the summer started, and so it is now, on the anniversary of my posting Chapter 1 that I’ll start writing regularly again. I hope to regain the trust of my readers.**

 

* * *

 

 

Chapter 15

 

 

John reclines on the small bed in his designated room at the base, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s tired after a day full of nothing, having kept mostly to his room, not feeling up to braving the way the men humor his attempts at keeping up with their exercise. He readjusts his mobile against his ear; Sherlock’s low rumble comes to John through the phone, his voice filled with sleep.

 

 

“Well, Spencer and Walberg check out.” John hears Sherlock yawn, a static crackle accompanying it. “Why are we doing this over the phone again? You know I prefer to text.”

 

 

John snorts, kicking off his shoes, letting them thump onto the cold floor. “And I prefer to _not_ have 6 part texts in my inbox, thanks. This way you can tell me everything that’s happened and all of your theories in one go, and I can interrupt to ask questions as needed. Besides, you like having an audience,” John teases, turning onto his side, keeping his mobile tucked beneath the ear pressing into the pillow. Sherlock makes a dismissive noise.

 

“Decidedly, the crime bosses in Germany are under his protection. He profits from them, like an investment,” Sherlock answers, a rustling sound coming through the receiver, as though he’d rolled over. “The rise in their activity may be their own doing, or Moriarty may have prompted it. I won’t be able to tell, at least not until I gather more data. He’s too careful about these things. The order would never come directly through him.”

 

 

John sighs. “Well, if you can trace it back to someone in London, the our best bet would be to assume that it’s Moriarty,” he muses, gesturing redundantly, knowing that Sherlock can tell from his tone what he’s doing.

 

 

“Obviously, but I don’t think we need to bother tracing it. If we figure out what exactly is being set in motion by the activity here in Germany, we can get a read on what we should be looking for. Increased sales of narcotics, weapons, human trafficking…all possible avenues of pursuit.”

 

John’s lips slowly purse while Sherlock speaks, his brows drawing together into a moue. “And, erm…how are you going to be ‘pursuing’ these avenues, exactly?”

 

“Lestrade. Though his information will likely be next to useless, seeing as crime reported is less that the tip of the iceberg. My contacts aren’t quite on the level we’d need to truly decipher anything, but I’ll get in touch.” John hears the man yawn again, realizing that this is one of the few times that Sherlock actually sounds tired. He could be running on an hour of sleep that he’d gotten a few days ago and be completely lucid up until the point where he drops off mid-cab ride, or in his chair. _You’ll never let on that you’re exhausted, will you? Not even to yourself_.

 

 

“Ah. Right. Should’ve guessed,” he says, smiling a bit. He finds himself yawning as well, eyes dewing. “I think I’ll call it a night.” _As much for you as for me_. “Night, Sherlock. Keep me posted.”

 

 

“Goodnight, John,” the detective agrees wearily, the rustle of his hair against the speaker the last thing that John hears before the man hangs up. He sets his mobile on his pillow next to his head, turning to lie on his back before beginning to drift off.

 

* * *

 

John wakes without prompting, just before dawn. Just like he used to _. It’s just the setting_ , he convinces himself. _Falling back on old habits_. He turns his head to look over at his phone, heart giving a jolt when it’s not where he left it. He sits up and lifts the blankets, glancing around with panic-sharpened eyes. He gives a sarcastic sigh when he finds it resting against his hip, the mobile having slipped down in the night from him tossing in his sleep.

 

 

He snatches it, checking for messages pointlessly, knowing that he would’ve jerked awake at the slightest sound of the message alert. Nothing, just like he’d expected. What a surprise. He moves his legs out of bed, the cold of the floor rising up and chilling his calves, feet already numb. He won’t complain. Even if his ribs ache from the temperature. Even though his shoulder is the stiffest it’s been since he got the bloody wound and his leg gives a twinge. Stress. Stress and cold. Perfect conditions to put an invalided ex-Army doctor in a foul mood.

 

 

The doctor stands carefully on his leg, running through the stretching exercises that he hasn’t used in over a year, gently pulling his arm across his torso to loosen the muscles. He grimaces, eyes closing at the flares of pain that ease themselves away the longer he massages his deltoid and trapezius. The remnants of his injuries from his encounter with Moran have mostly faded, no longer being worth his attention, bruises the only real things left behind. Bruises and residual fury. He braces himself against the end of the bed and slowly raises his knee, leg protesting quite vehemently. He hisses, using his free arm to coax it higher in soft pulses, sighing at the jarring sensation.

 

The sound of his door opening nearly makes him jump. John glances up, letting his leg down. Anthea stands in the doorway, mobile in hand as usual. She smiles briefly at him without taking her eyes off her screen, fingers pressing at the keys of her blackberry.  She’s dressed in a dark blazer with a cranberry blouse and matching nail polish. She looks pristine, completely out of place with the utilitarian atmosphere of the base.

 

 

“We’re ready for you, John,” she says distractedly, waiting for John to dress in the clean set of generic clothes provided by the man standing behind her in his fatigues. John takes the offered clothes with nod, not particularly happy with being collected and shipped off to an unknown location. He has to sit down to pull on the trousers, leg still tense, expression blank over the dissatisfaction and anger that simmer inside of him. Once he’s decent, shoes tied, mobile and charger in his pockets, coat buttoned and scarf around his neck, she steps to the side to allow John passage into the corridor. _Let me guess…no point in asking where we’re headed? ‘Course not._ He gives her a tight-lipped grimace before glancing around at the near-empty room behind him. He certainly won’t be missing it. The other soldier moves into the room, gathering the few things that were provided to him, packing them away in a small satchel.

 

 

His eyes sweep the corridor as he follows the clack of Anthea’s heels around the corner to the outer doors, the sweep of icy air biting at his face and hands as they exit. The car waits for them, exhaust billowing out in clouds of thick steam. His shoes grind against the asphalt, the very weather seeming to reflect his bitterness as he passes from the crisp chill and into the muggy heat of the car’s interior. He slides across the leather seat to the far side, somehow finding himself drawn to the aura of cold that comes from the window. He sets his forehead against it, the car rocking as Anthea closes the door behind herself. 

* * *

 

**A/N: Think of the town from Hot Fuzz.**

 

 

The town’s center is surprisingly urban for how man farms are in the vicinity, the outer edges distinctly patchworked with crops. _Fantastic_. He checks his phone, praying for signal as they coast to a stop outside a tall complex of flats, the facades new, no doubt expensive to rent. He twists around in his seat, groggy as he looks out of the back window at the small shops that line the street. _One, two, three- Four! Four bloody pie shops, all on the same bloody street. How much pie can this town possibly eat?_

 

 

With a baffled shake of his head, John follows Anthea out of the car, stepping onto the cobbled lane. He closes the door behind him with a light touch, lips pursed at how empty the place seems to be, falling behind Anthea as she moves up the stone steps, pulling a key out of some pocket or other. The door is white. Respectable. Clean. As though it had been painted recently. The woman ushers him over the threshold without joining him, closing the door behind him with a firm click and a metallic grind as she relocks the door, leaving John to shift awkwardly as he’s approached by a tall man with red-gold hair and bright smile.

 

“I’m Reese, and I’ll be hosting you,” he states, extending a hand which John takes politely, the man’s grip sincere as he shakes. Should he introduce himself? The man should already know, right? _Rather not risk it._

 

 

“John Watson,” he returns, glancing around at the neatly decorated corridor extending behind the man, everything looking rather like it had come from a magazine.

 

 

“Oh, how stupid of me! Come this way to the kitchen; I was making breakfast when they told me you were coming. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat,” Reese says conversationally over his shoulder, leading John into a large kitchen with stone counters and dark wooded cabinets, “so I made a few things.”

 

 

John pauses, mouth falling open at the sight of all the food on the counters. “A few things,” he repeats, tone a bit faint with disbelief. He walks further into the kitchen as Reese moves about, amazement coloring his features as he turns to the man. “You a chef, then?”

 

 

“3 years of cooking school,” Reese beams, clearly delighted with John’s reaction. “Go on, see if there’s anything you want. Anything you’d like to drink? We’ve got water, beer, juice, tea, milk.” He gives John a ‘the usual’ sort of shrug as he opens the refrigerator.

 

“I- erm…water will be fine, thanks.” John seats himself at the dining table just opposite the entrance, his shoes leaving the tile and scuffing softly across the carpeting. Reese moves around the kitchen with a cheery humming, fetching out plates and utensils. He looks up at John.

 

 

“Do you just want me to load up your plate with a bit of everything?” His hands are poised over the dishes before him, as though for emphasis, darting with efficiency to scoop and serve at John’s nod. He brings over the plate, walking with a practiced swiftness, setting it down along with the proper utensils before returning to the kitchen to fill John’s glass with cold water from the refrigerator. John accepts the glass with a quiet murmur of thanks, a bit overwhelmed, but in a good way, he thinks. _Not at all what I expected_.

 

 

“So-.“ John stops, looking at Reese questioningly. “If you took 3 years of cooking school, why do you work for Mycroft? Why aren’t you a head chef at one of the posh restaurants at Harrods, or have your own restaurant?”

 

 

Reese gives an odd smile as he puts food on his own plate, hands moving more slowly, taking his time as he considers how to answer.

 

“My Da was working for Mr. Holmes before he died. Said that he wanted me to take his place. That he knew I was up for the job. Wasn’t really anything to it. I agreed immediately, since that was Da’s last request before he died in the hospital of a fat embolism from a broken leg. He hadn’t meant it to be his last words, since he figured he’d be home in a few days…but fat embolisms strike fast.” Reese gives the sort of practiced smile one gives when they’ve realized they’ve accidentally made the other person uncomfortable. He toys with the food on his plate before bringing it over to the table.

 

 

“I’m- I’m sorry about your father.” John clasps his hands in his lap, his food steaming and ignored where it sits in front of him. “Can’t’ve been easy.”

 

 

Reese shrugs. “Yeah, but we’re all ok now. Move on,” he says distractedly as he returns to the kitchen to find lids to cover the extra food. He finally takes his seat a well, scooting his chair in and beginning to eat. John watches for a moment longer, not sure how to respond, before doing likewise.

 

 

“My god, this is fantastic,” John exclaims, staring at the food on his plate, unable to prevent an eye roll of enjoyment. He turns to Reese, not sure exactly how to properly express himself with anything more than wordless sounds. Reese grins widely. Nothing quite so satisfying as watching someone go wild for something you’ve created yourself, after all.

 

“I take it no one cooks for you very often,” Reese observes, tone just the slightest bit boastful as he pauses in his eating to take in John’s praise. The soldier gives a firm shake of his head.

 

 

“Mm-mm, _noooo._ Don’t even dare let Sherlock near the stove. Probably burn the place down in under 10 minutes if I let him be.” John can’t help but chat, tongue loosened by the good food and willing listener. “I’m surprised he can boil water, for god’s sake.”

 

 

“Ah, I know the type,” the man sympathizes, standing to fetch himself some orange juice from the refrigerator. “Girlfriend’s the same way. Da always thought it was odd that I did all the cooking for her, but we live in progressive times, eh? And I’m not a fan of burnt and/or over seasoned food.”

 

 

John laughs, setting down his fork and putting a hand to his mouth before speaking. “Mm, what’s she do, then, your girlfriend? Career-wise, since it seems like the lack of cooking ability is paired off with intelligence.”

 

 

“Computer engineer. She’s brilliant, she really is.” Reese’s grin gets softer, eyes a bit sad. “Don’t get to see much of her, what with my job and hers.”

 

John gives a small nod. He knows the feeling that he sees in Reese’s face. Being so proud of another’s intelligence; taking any excuse to brag about them. _Seems like a certain amount of gloom always follows the brightest of minds_.

 

 

“She works for the government. Defense program. Works overseas in America a few months out of the year. Very celebrated.” The man’s small smile grows again as he sips from his orange juice, the color similar to the glint of the morning light on his hair.

 

 

John nods, wrapped in the conversation. It’s surprising how much effect this man is having on his mood, the gloom of being sequestered away momentarily forgotten. For now he eats and laughs. This is refreshing. To be with someone that can hold a conversation that isn’t an argument over milk or about putrification. Normal. Sure, he can talk normally with Greg, but it always ends up being about the same things. Football scores. How Sherlock’s progressing on a case. His ex-wife. John relishes this, even though he’ll never be sure how much truth Reese is telling. Isn’t it dangerous to share things like this with a stranger? _Doesn’t matter_. The conversation wanders comfortably, and soon both of them have finished their food, lingering over their empty plates without a concern for how surely a few hours have already passed…

 

 

“Oh! Shite, I meant to give you a look around the place, and if you’re up for it we can tour the town. It’s small, but it’s got a lot to offer if you can appreciate a rustic life,” the man says, standing and taking both of their plates and cups over to a deep sink, rinsing them before motioning over his shoulder to the rest of the flat.

 

John wipes his mouth on a napkin, nodding and getting to his feet. “Bin?” Reese nods his head to a pantry to the side, letting John dispose of his napkin before heading down and around a corner to a corridor with a sliding door to a back balcony on one side, three doors lining the other.

 

 

“Right, so. This is where I’ll be if you need anything and I’m not wandering about cleaning,” Reese jokes, tapping his nail against the first door as he walks past it. “And this is the loo. Useful knowledge, that. Annnd, guest room. Your room now, for however long you stay.”

 

 

The man turns the knob, leading the way into a spacious room with a cream and gold theme to it. The light filters through the window cheerfully, only adding to the warm tones. John sits on the edge of the bed, giving a soft bounce, earning him a smirk from his host, which the doctor returns.

 

“Bit posh, isn’t it? For the area, I mean. Farmland, and yet suddenly there’s a hotel-worthy complex…” John trails, shaking his head with a smile on his face. “Guess this is one of the perks of working for Mycroft? No way the locals are happy about this place, eh?”

 

Reese scrunches his nose, tipping his head to the side. “Yeah… This is sort of the place that Mr. Holmes has set aside for when his people need some time to recuperate from the stress. It can get pretty harrowing sometimes. The people here don’t mind it so much anymore, since it’s a source of a pretty hefty income from the government. I like the life they’ve got out here. Simpler.”

 

 

“Simple is good,” John says with an earnest grimace. Simple just about drove him mad before, but now and again it’s soothing. He purses his lips as he looks around at the furnishings, happily amused that Mycroft would bother with such a facility.

 

 

“Dunno if you want to shower before we go out, but towels are in the bathroom. Feel free to use whatever’s in there.”

 

 

“Yeah, thanks,” John says quietly as the man exits, staring around. He nods once. “Right.” Getting back up, he leaves the bedroom to enter into the middle door, finding the bathroom to be just as fancy and well kempt as the rest of the place. He steps onto the blue-green tiling, closing the door almost shyly behind himself, locking it with a fumble before twiddling his fingers against his palms, exploring. The tiling extends midway up the walls, the paint of which is a neutral taupe color with matching bathmats set in front of the step-in shower. The only thing separating the shower from the floor is a texturized curb, a taupe curtain pulled across its tiled stall.

 

“…Wow,” John manages, almost not wanting to use the bathroom or shower for fear of tainting their splendor, but he undresses all the same, folding his clothes and setting them on the countertop next to the wide oval sink. He catches his reflection in the mirror, noticing for the first time how much he’s changed from before. He’s always looked weary. Always looked fed up. Yet he looks like hell now _. Just over a week away from you and I’m a wreck_. He pulls a face at himself, cutting off that line of thought.

 

 

 After taking care of some much-needed business with the loo, he approaches the shower, pulling back the curtain tentatively, eyes automatically drawn to the massive showerhead that looms over him. _Looks like it’s made to power wash the sodding skin from my bones, Christ_. He bumps the shower’s handle into the on position while remaining safely out of the way, discovering the stream to be thorough but gentle. _Almost underwhelming, that_. He steps in.

 

* * *

 

“And just how many pie shops are there here?” John walks with Reese down the cobbled streets, staring up at one of the numerous hanging plant pots that line, turning to give another smirk.

 

 

“13, if you don’t count Mrs. Greene’s bed and breakfast,” the man responds, giving John a chastising look. “Don’t knock it. You go to different ones depending on what you want. It’s kind of like each shop specializes. Wanting organic? Go to Brew’s. Fancy latticework? Head over to Peddlings. List goes on.”

 

 

“Ah, the little ville with all of your pie needs.” John snorts, eyes drawn to a fountain in the middle of a small park where a few children play, mothers sitting on a bench a little ways off, chatting with each other. “Really is a nice place, though. Especially to raise a family.”

 

“I suppose, if you’re into this kind of place. Here,” Reese says, motioning for them to enter into a pub with fine wood carving on the door and window frames. The loud sound of men laughing reaches them, along with the smell of something pleasant and fried. “Place doesn’t even have a name, they just call it ‘the pub’. Even though it’s one of three in the town.” Reese almost has to shout over the noise, grinning and leading the doctor to a table near a window, ordering two plates of smackers and two pints.

 

 

The amusement and happiness in the place is infectious, making John smile even if he’s merely a bystander. When the food arrives, he stares at the steaming plate of fried potato rounds, wondering just how much weight he’ll be gaining during his stay here, what with Reese feeding him fan-fucking-tastic food and trying out all the shops. Not that he minds. He sips the ale, nodding in place of comment, thoroughly enjoying himself and the company, feeling at ease for the first time in a while.

 

 

**A/N: Getting sick of the A/N’s yet? Thanks for reading! If you could, please, I’d love for you to review, even if it’s only to tell me how much you hated it. I want to get a feel for how many people read and enjoy it. Next chapter coming either next Saturday or Sunday.**


	16. Greyson

**A/N: Had to do a lot of thinking for this one to properly skew the characterization. Took much too long.**

 

Chapter 16

 

 

The alarm echoes down the short corridor, waking Greyson with a small snort as he jerks upright, the bits of popcorn tumbling down into his lap as he stares around with bleary eyes. Again? He really needs to cut down on the blogging. He struggles to his feet, hearing the sound of a car driving away, yawning widely as he bends to pick up the mess he’s made, carrying the bowl to the kitchen, flipping off the sitting room light as he goes. _It’s already daylight, after all. No need to waste any more energy._

 

 

He dumps the bowl into the trash, shuffling down the corridor to his bedroom, rubbing his eyes like a tired toddler as he does so. He flinches at the way the alarm blares, grumbling, jabbing the off button. The silence descends, returning the peace. The end of his bed is cool as he sits on it, staring around at the few unpacked boxes that remain. He’ll deal with them later. He’s got work to get ready for. His first day of work, actually. A small jolt of anxiety jumps through him, prodding him to his feet as he rushes to the bathroom, stripping down.

 

 

He nearly stumbles; feet caught in his pants as he braces himself against the edge of the tub, kicking them off and getting in, the cold porcelain making goose bumps go up his legs. He flings the curtain closed, glancing around as he reaches to turn on the water. _Bugger._ He’s left his shampoo and conditioner and body wash in one of the boxes. He growls, rubbing his hands down his face before getting out again, walking defiantly naked into the bedroom, rummaging through the box nearest the door. _Scrubby?_ He supposes he should bring it… He tucks it into the crook of his elbow, scraping himself on the edge of the box before collecting the two bottles, holding their tops in between his fingers before returning.

 

 

The general chill leaves him wishing he’d knotted a towel around his waist to at least keep his lower half warm, not that it matters now that he steps over his pants and into the shower, setting the bottles neatly on the plastic shelving built in to the wall, hanging the luffa on the tap head before cranking the handle round to find the proper heat setting. In his hurry he turns the water a bit hotter than is comfortable, failing to enjoy it in its entirely as he flinches back from the steaming water, his skin a pitiful pink all over. Lathering the shampoo just out of reach of the stream, he sighs, the sense of impending misery lingering thickly in the air with the vapor. He leans in, back bowing to rinse the lather from his hair, the heat stinging his scalp. His hiss of pain is lost amongst the thunder of the water.

 

_IwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyou._

 

 

The single sentence echoes through his head, his vision going fuzzy, shaking hands reaching out to cling onto anything within arm’s length, knocking the bottles from their perch with one hand, the other clutching at the shower curtain as he finds himself sinking down, down, down, past the reaches of all light. The hot fog in the air makes his chest tight, the water beating mercilessly against his shins, the curtain taut almost to the point of being pulled loose from its fastenings. He’s torn between the urge to remain small and the urge to flee, fighting against the slick bottom of the tub.

 

 

It’s his own voice. His. _His_. The remnants of his coherence crumbles, the cold fear mixing with the hot water, leaving him lukewarm and petrified. The soft empty voice, the tone so foreign to his own, is replaced. Replaced with a low voice that rasps slightly, the sound a bit grating, yet immensely comforting. It says something indistinct, but suggestive of humor, the inflection exaggerated. Greyson’s eyes shut tighter as he tries to hold onto it. To place it. The panic in him dwindles, his eyes opening with a soft exhale as it all slips away. _What-_ He can’t manage a full thought, bewildered to find himself cowering in the shower.

 

 

He stands on quaking legs, dazedly gathering the bottles and righting them. He reaches up, finding his hair only half-rinsed of the shampoo, supposing he’d better…erm…finish up here. Movements slow, he turns the heat down, walking under the stream and staring blankly at the tile, the locks of his hair plastered down his forehead. He quite frankly forgets what he’s doing, only finding some semblance of stability when the water runs cold, hair unconditioned. He shuts the water off with a weak hand, listening to the sound of the droplets hitting the tub, trickling away just as the voices had.

 

 

He strains to recall the second one, his mind reaching what seems to be a solid wall. No, he mustn’t think of it that way. That implied there’s something to be found, when he’s sure he’s never heard the voice before. Surely it’s all just his imagination. He hasn’t be sleeping well lately… Just the fancies of a knackered mind. Then why does he feel so…? He rubs his hands down his face forcefully, the frustration growing into an uncharacteristic rage. That voice. The sense of déjà entendu is maddening. Why can’t he just- He gives a short bark of angry protest, hitting the wall with his fist.

 

 

He covers his face with a damp hand, muttering into it softly. This isn’t him. He’s not like this. Not angry. Not prone to outbursts. He just needs to calm down and get on with getting ready for work. _Piss!_ He throws back the shower curtain, stepping out and pulling the towel around him, the beige fabric cheap and not particularly absorbent. He continue to shake, though at least it’s partially from cold now as his fast trot to the bedroom pulls him through the cool air. He rubs the towel over himself almost frantically, draping it over his head and shoulders as he opens the top drawer of his dresser with a _schick_ of particle board against particle board, the only think in it being the clothes he’ll need for today.

 

 

He drags the pants up his legs, the waistband askew, the socks quickly following up his calves, trousers tugged up over his arse and fastened with a fumble. He manhandles his skull through the towel, hair wild and rather fluffed, his undershirt serving only to make it more mussed, his eyebrows now brush out of place downwards by the collar. Shoving his arms into his casual graphic t-shirt, he pulls it over his head, searching for his boots, which he finds carelessly stashed under his bed after fruitless minutes of searching through boxes. Once they’re in hand, he dashes to the kitchen, shoving his wallet into his pocket, eyes catching on a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet painted like a small planet Earth.

 

****

**_CLASS MOVED FROM_ **

**_9 TO 10_ **

 

 

He mentally stutters for a moment, slumping forwards onto the counter, the need for rush all but evaporated. _Thank god_. He ignores the trembling of his hands, taking his kettle from its spot on the stove top to fill it with water, the slow increase in its weight carefully gauged before he shuts off the tap, returning the kettle to the back burner and twisting the knob to high. His hands rest of the edge of the stove, eyes staring into his reflection of the microwave door, a frown on his face as though it’s something he can’t parse…

 

 

The kettle whistles, making him jump, his staring haven gone on longer than the moments he’d anticipated. Lips twitching into a slight scowl, he realizes he hasn’t prepared his mug or gotten out any tea; things that he would typically have done during the interlude of the water boiling. His fingers curl under the door of the cupboard to the left of the stove, taking out a loose-leaf rooibos tea before he crosses to the other cupboard for a plan white stoneware mug, pulling open a drawer for the infuser.

 

 

All the while the kettle is screaming, almost to the point of boiling over as he sets it on a cool ring, shutting off the glowing element. With careful fingers he measures out his tea into the infuser where it rests across the mouth of the mug, pouring the scalding water through slowly until the cup is filled. Leaving it to steep a while longer, Greyson fetches himself the soy milk from the fridge as well as a small recycled plastic tub of hummus. He sets the items aside on the counter, going about making himself toast, leaving the wheat bread to brown as he strains the last of the tea from the leaves and tosses them, rinsing the infuser and returning it to the drawer. The orange color of the rooibos is diluted by a slow pour of soy milk, his hands wavering only the slightest bit now that his routine is there to guide him.

 

 

 _Pull yourself together. You’ve got time. Set yourself up for a scare, didn’t you?_ He slowly shakes his head, marveling at his own forgetfulness in changing the alarm time. It’s only a 15 minute cycle to work. He’s got ages until he needs to be on campus. All the worry for nothing. He spreads the hummus across the perfect brown of his toast, artfully arranging the slices on a small plate next to his mug before putting the milk and tea tin away, sealing the bread with a twist. Carrying his breakfast into the sitting room, he approaches his laptop, staring around suspiciously as he sets it all down. Where did he leave his messenger bag…? He wanders back into the bedroom, face set in a gently befuddled frown, this morning seeming only to discourage him further.

 

 

The darkness of his bedroom is quite simply unacceptable. Who would want to sleep in such a dungeon? No wonder he ended up kipping on the sofa. The curtain fastenings rattle as he parts them as far as they’ll go, his eyes dazzled by the sudden influx of light. The street is now revealed, and though it’s not particularly classy, it’s at least pleasant enough. Decent. Normal. Unassuming. Like something out of a spy book; a place to wait for things to blow over. He likes that. He feels himself warm to the place a bit more.

 

 

His lips tug into a soft smile, the daylight shining in looking rather washed out from the clouds covering the sky, the shadows only gentle gradients. Perfect day for a stroll with his camera, if he were so inclined. Now that everything is properly illuminated he looks for his aged leather messenger bag, finding it where he should’ve known it’d be: on a hanger in the closet, along with his camera bag. He fondly takes them both with him into the kitchen to collect his worn boots from where he’d dropped them onto the floor. Flumping down onto the sofa with a light sigh, he clunks his boots back down, tucking his bags against his side before reaching to prop open his laptop. The startup noise blares as he loosens the laces of his boots, pulling over his heels and stringing them securely, leaving his trouser legs bunched above the tops as he leans in to attend to his computer.

 

 

The background of a close-up shot of a gardenia in bloom accompanies the login, his skilled fingers punching out his username and password, taking him to his desktop, web browser already open to his blog. Compulsively refreshing the page his kneads his lips, scrolling through his dashboard, taking in the images of delicately out of focus thin people and bold text across fogged backgrounds. An idle hand brings his tea to his lips, the burn not phasing him in the slightest as he reblogs indie photography from the art blogs that he follows, methodically tagging them. He quirks his brows as he clicks over to his list of followers, sighing over the 6 URLs that are there. They’re so talented. Really they are. Nah, tumblr fame isn’t for him. Especially not with how nervous he gets with even the slightest compliment. Like all the mornings before, he fiddles with his theme, trying to find just the right color accent, forever pondering his own URL. Pretentious? Probably.

 

 

whenskiesaregreyson

 

 

He munches into his slice of toast, sitting back and staring at the URL. He can’t change it. It’s too sentimental. The backdrop to majority of his favorite memories, that lullaby. Chewing the toast, he sets a booted foot up onto the coffee table next to the whirring machine, bobbing the toe of it softly. It suits him too well. He dusts the crumbs from his fingers onto his trousers with an air of finality, taking a last gulp of his tea. Meandering to the bathroom to fix his hair and brush his teeth, he rounds the corner more slowly, as though the room could hold an echo of the terrifying little episode he experienced. Nothing? Good… He takes in his reflection, frowning while battling to smooth down his hair where it sticks up in the back, running his fingers forward through it, head tipped down. Messy but not careless is what he aims for.

 

 

None of his products are on the counter. _‘Course not. I really need to unpack._ Clomping quietly to rummage through boxes again, he rolls his eyes at the ceiling before bending to dig his pomade from under other sundry toiletries. He returns to his spot in front of the mirror, unscrewing the cap and dabbing his fingers into the scented product, dragging it carefully through his hair with a focused grimace on his face. He tugs at the tips of a few wayward locks to keep them slightly unruly, the rest falling in a mostly natural way. Tilting his head to admire his work he rinses his fingers, closing the pomade. Victory once more against his batshit crazy hair.  Still smug with his achievement he squeezes a neat cylinder of toothpaste onto his toothbrush, scrubbing as he leans on one hand, perhaps making more bubbles than is entirely necessary. His eyes widen and narrow flirtatiously at himself as he gives a ‘Well aren’t you a saucy bastard’ type of look.

 

 

What else does he need to do? _Deodorant, damn_. He bites down on the toothbrush, giving a light jog back into the bedroom, searching through the box, holding the deodorant clasped in one hand as he picks up the box with a chiding murmur past the toothpaste suds, finally sick of running back and forth for every little bloody thing he needs. He kicks his dirty clothes out of the way, clunking the box down into the cleared space, staring down as though to make sure it’s properly repentant for causing such fuss, a certain cockiness in the way he spits out the lather into the sink, rinsing his mouth and wiping at the edges of his lips. The clink of the rinsed brush getting tossed casually into its holder is cheerful.

 

 

The scent of deodorant wafts up to him as he uncaps it, lifting up both layers of shirts to apply it in a few long strokes. He likes this one, the fragrance strong enough to be smelled only faintly in passing. Nothing worse than being overpowered by cologne or perfume. His eyes dart sideways to the shower, the stick of deodorant in one hand, the cap in the other, feeling unsettled again. Jaw flexing nervously, Grey sets everything down, his hands running down his face as he tries to walk away slowly, giving a sound of exhaustion. God, why can’t he just forget it? He needs his coat. He scavenges for his black pea coat with the red buttons, needing to insulate himself against whatever the hell it is he’s feeling.

 

 

He can honestly say that is the first time he’s collapsed in a shower. The first time he’s felt this unstable. Is he getting ill? Maybe he should rest- _Can’t. Work. What kind of impression is calling in sick on my first day? I need this_. To be on campus before the class actually starts. Chewing his lip, he buttons the coat, moving about to collect his dishes slowly, setting them into the sink. He sits down in front of his laptop again for a moment, almost surprised to find that he’d spent all his time looking at his dash without reblogging anything. It’s too empty now, his blog. He’d purged it about a month back, deciding to start over with a less cluttered collection of photos. Not that anyone noticed. He starts up the webcam, carrying the laptop into the kitchen to take a picture of the note on his fridge. _Bloody new set up, making it so I can’t just take a picture and post it_ , he gripes internally, returning to the sitting room to upload the image to a new post.

 

 

He types out a quick caption, tagging it appropriately. It looks wrong. Out of place with the high-quality photos that he’d reblogged yesterday, the image dark and grainy. He’s got time for one more post to distract from his personal one. He scrolls only for a moment, settling on a gif image of a man lying in bed opening his eyes in a comically confused manner. He’s sure he recognizes it from an old film…Gene Kelly…An American in Paris? That has to be it. He checks the blog that made the gif, going into their link for gifs from musicals. He’s right. Knew it. Reblogging it, he looks his arm through the straps of his two bags. Groaning, he feels the need to tell somebody about the nerves jangling in his body. _Fine. One more personal post_.  Deciding on a discreet readmore he gives a small blurb before posting and shutting his laptop, hoping his queue will bury it before anyone reads it.

 

 

He slips his laptop into his messenger bag, patting the side pocket to check that the charger is where he left it, standing finally and collecting his singular key off the countertop. The key ring is so awkwardly bare of other things that it doesn’t even jingle when he stuffs it into his pocket. A cab today…just to get used to the route. Well, that’s necessary anyways, since his bike lock is one of many things lost in one of the other boxes in his flat. Has he forgotten anything…? He frowns, taking a few steps backwards before turning to leave, his bags swinging against his side, their weight soothing and familiar.

 

 

The chill, as he opens the door, doesn’t blast him. Doesn’t swallow him. It softly creeps up his body from his boots to his head, caressing, only stealing his warmth when he moves through it, wading into the gentle cold to close and lock his door behind him. He stares out from his porch for a long moment, grasping that he’s right on the threshold of something he’s always wanted. He pushes his hands into his pockets, making his way toward the main road. _For a Monday morning, it’s not half bad_ , he thinks, chortling internally. He’s not sure whether or not he’s being sarcastic.

 

 

He feels good, bundled up and safe, the setting banishing the discomfort as the occasional beam of sun falls through the thick cloud layer, giving the scene something of a significant air about it. Sign of a good day to come? He hopes so, even going so far as to cross his fingers in his pockets as he reaches the curb, giving a nervous bounce on his heels. Lifting a hand, he waits for a cab to pick him up, ignoring the stray thought that maybe none of them will stop… _Hush, they can’t all be full, right?_ Before he can add a tentative afterthought of ‘right?’ again in a more hushed tone a cab slides smoothly to pull alongside the pavement.

 

 

His doubts nullified, Greyson directs the cab driver, settling back in his seat, bags on his lap and feeling small, the sight of innumerable cars and people sending a tickle of anxiety through him. Chest tightening, he can feel every breath stretch his lungs, an irrational urge to flee going through him. He tips his head back against the seat taking a slow breath, letting it puff out his cheeks as he exhales, keeping his eyes closed until the very last bit of air is gone. His next breath is noticeably less tight, his fingers playing with the stra of his messenger bag in an uncoordinated fashion, the leather feeling almost like flesh once it picks up his own heat. It comforts him, even if the idea itself is rather perturbing when thought of out of context.

 

 

Thankfully, the ride is short. He stuffs his hand into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out the right bills and giving them over, nearly dropping them. The can pulls away, leaving him on the pavement outside the university campus, feeling like an idiot. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve taken out the money earlier._ He clamps his lips shut, hand finding its way back to the strap of the messenger bag as he steps onwards, trying to instill a bit of confidence in his walk. Students are everywhere. Sitting on the grass, the steps up to buildings, standing in groups. He feels like he’s back in his own school days, and the feeling isn’t a good one. _This was a mistake…all of it._ He wants to crawl into his bed and stay there for the foreseeable future if he may, please and thanks. He feels a bit sick, hoping against hope that he doesn’t lose his breakfast.

 

 

He walks off, at speed, towards the Arts and Literature buildings, clinging to the fact that he knows where he’s going to help keep himself calm. He keeps as far back from the people around him as possible, unintentionally making himself stand out, not that anyone is particularly concerned about the strange bloke with the scared look on his face. His palms sweat, even though the cold air should prevent such, his heart fluttering in his chest. He’s not built for life outside his flat. Not qualified to deal with people.

 

 

Sucking in a deep breath, he holds it as long as he can, feeling his heartbeat grow louder in his ears, repeating the exercise as he goes even though he starts to see sparkles _. Soon. Close. Almost there_. He can read the smaller signs on the side of the buildings, like moorings for his eyes, keeping him from looking elsewhere. Once he enters the shade of the building he brushes his fingers across the brick as he finds the right doorway, letting himself in. The silence inside is odd, muffled and heavy. He finds refuge in an alcove, sitting on the bench there. He’s early. Early is good. Early is great. He can get into the class without worrying about people already being there and looking at him when he opens the door. His legs feel a bit weak when he gets up to find the right room, but he’s more stable. His eyes are a bit wide as he looks down the corridor, following it to the room, finding himself nearly bumping into the very professor he’s to be assisting.

 

“Mr. Philips! Wasn’t expecting you for another 10 minutes or so. Glad you’re here, though. Shows good character.” Prof. Lydia Magellan gives a quick bright smile, her hand settling onto Greyson’s elbow, his nervousness obvious. The woman’s deep plum-red hair confuses him for a moment, the face matching the voice luckily. _Did she dye her hair it’s not the color it was the week before oh god what if I lose sight of her and mistake her for a student-_ “You’ve got about a half hour to set up if you’d like. Do you need anything? Coffee? A valium maybe?” She gives a quiet laugh, her expression gentle.

 

 

“I-erm- no thanks.” He remembers to smile in return, trying to turn his anxiety into enthusiasm. “So, I’ll just go in and-…?”

 

 

“Yeah, yeah! Go ahead. Take a good look around. And relax while you’re at it. They aren’t going to draw and quarter you,” Magellan chides, patting his arm and moving off down the corridor a bit, heading towards the lounge area. He notices the cup in her hand, assuring himself that she’ll be back soon enough, once she’s filled it up with whatever she’s drinking. She’ll give him direction. He won’t be as useless as a fish out of water, flailing around pathetically.

 

 

The door into the studio is covered in the initials of graduate students from Magellan’s class, the strokes made in Deco marker or something similar, with a sturdy lacquer over them to keep them there for as long as the door remains part of the classroom. His fingertips trace over the varying styles of writing, artful loops and angles in all of the signatures. _A work of art in and of itself, he thinks to himself_ , finally moving to enter, closing the door quietly behind himself, even though the pressurized hinge would keep it from slamming anyways. The layout is different from last time… He tries not to stress, finding Magellan’s desk and the smaller table set to the side for him, holding his bags in front of him to avoid catching them on the edges of a few easels set about. Sitting down with a puff of air, he unpacks his camera and laptop, fidgeting with their placement until Magellan returns.

 

 

“Still not relaxed, I see,” she says sweetly, sitting in her own seat, setting her full cup to the side as she moves a few water color brushes and something she’s been working on to the side. “It’s really not as difficult as it seems. They may be our students, but majority of them are responsible, kind adults. They won’t be shrieking and hanging from the rafters, tossing rubbers at you. All you need to do is go around and offer help if they need it. They know what they’re doing, so you’ll likely spend most of your time just milling around.” She flashes a look at him, giving another warm smile.

 

 

Nothing occurs to him in reply except to nod to her, trying not to notice the tattoos on her neck and wrists, fascinated in spite of himself by the clean lines and abstract design. She, of course, sees this, pulling up her sleeves to reveal sleeves of a more creative nature. “Wow… Those are great,” he mumbles, tilting his head now that he’s been invited to look.

 

 

“Not inked yourself, I take it,” she says, watching him with amusement.

 

 

“Oh god no.” He shakes his head, a small laugh getting lodged somewhere in his throat. “Wouldn’t dare. My mum scared any urge out of me. Took me to a retirement village to show me what my tattoos would look like when I got old. And…I’m a bit of a pain lightweight.” He grimaces, feeling a bit more at ease. Fooling himself perhaps, into thinking that he can get through today without a panic attack.

 

 

“Maybe it’s time to loosen up a bit, Greyson. Live a little.” Magellan tugs her sleeves back down, taking a sip from her cup. “Get a little off the beaten path.”

 

 

“Yeah…maybe.” The smile on his face is slight, but extends into a rather balloon-like sensation of tentative relaxation and excitement in his chest. He’s as ready as he can be.

 

**A/N: Greyson's blog is real, though it's still in the works. If you interact with him, try to keep it normal rather than hinting at anything that would induce a bleed-through.**


	17. Greyson

**A/N: Had to do a lot of thinking for this one to properly skew the characterization. Took much too long.**

 

Chapter 16

 

 

The alarm echoes down the short corridor, waking Greyson with a small snort as he jerks upright, the bits of popcorn tumbling down into his lap as he stares around with bleary eyes. Again? He really needs to cut down on the blogging. He struggles to his feet, hearing the sound of a car driving away, yawning widely as he bends to pick up the mess he’s made, carrying the bowl to the kitchen, flipping off the sitting room light as he goes. _It’s already daylight, after all. No need to waste any more energy._

 

 

He dumps the bowl into the trash, shuffling down the corridor to his bedroom, rubbing his eyes like a tired toddler as he does so. He flinches at the way the alarm blares, grumbling, jabbing the off button. The silence descends, returning the peace. The end of his bed is cool as he sits on it, staring around at the few unpacked boxes that remain. He’ll deal with them later. He’s got work to get ready for. His first day of work, actually. A small jolt of anxiety jumps through him, prodding him to his feet as he rushes to the bathroom, stripping down.

 

 

He nearly stumbles; feet caught in his pants as he braces himself against the edge of the tub, kicking them off and getting in, the cold porcelain making goose bumps go up his legs. He flings the curtain closed, glancing around as he reaches to turn on the water. _Bugger._ He’s left his shampoo and conditioner and body wash in one of the boxes. He growls, rubbing his hands down his face before getting out again, walking defiantly naked into the bedroom, rummaging through the box nearest the door. _Scrubby?_ He supposes he should bring it… He tucks it into the crook of his elbow, scraping himself on the edge of the box before collecting the two bottles, holding their tops in between his fingers before returning.

 

 

The general chill leaves him wishing he’d knotted a towel around his waist to at least keep his lower half warm, not that it matters now that he steps over his pants and into the shower, setting the bottles neatly on the plastic shelving built in to the wall, hanging the luffa on the tap head before cranking the handle round to find the proper heat setting. In his hurry he turns the water a bit hotter than is comfortable, failing to enjoy it in its entirely as he flinches back from the steaming water, his skin a pitiful pink all over. Lathering the shampoo just out of reach of the stream, he sighs, the sense of impending misery lingering thickly in the air with the vapor. He leans in, back bowing to rinse the lather from his hair, the heat stinging his scalp. His hiss of pain is lost amongst the thunder of the water.

 

_IwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyouIwanttorememberyou._

 

 

The single sentence echoes through his head, his vision going fuzzy, shaking hands reaching out to cling onto anything within arm’s length, knocking the bottles from their perch with one hand, the other clutching at the shower curtain as he finds himself sinking down, down, down, past the reaches of all light. The hot fog in the air makes his chest tight, the water beating mercilessly against his shins, the curtain taut almost to the point of being pulled loose from its fastenings. He’s torn between the urge to remain small and the urge to flee, fighting against the slick bottom of the tub.

 

 

It’s his own voice. His. _His_. The remnants of his coherence crumbles, the cold fear mixing with the hot water, leaving him lukewarm and petrified. The soft empty voice, the tone so foreign to his own, is replaced. Replaced with a low voice that rasps slightly, the sound a bit grating, yet immensely comforting. It says something indistinct, but suggestive of humor, the inflection exaggerated. Greyson’s eyes shut tighter as he tries to hold onto it. To place it. The panic in him dwindles, his eyes opening with a soft exhale as it all slips away. _What-_ He can’t manage a full thought, bewildered to find himself cowering in the shower.

 

 

He stands on quaking legs, dazedly gathering the bottles and righting them. He reaches up, finding his hair only half-rinsed of the shampoo, supposing he’d better…erm…finish up here. Movements slow, he turns the heat down, walking under the stream and staring blankly at the tile, the locks of his hair plastered down his forehead. He quite frankly forgets what he’s doing, only finding some semblance of stability when the water runs cold, hair unconditioned. He shuts the water off with a weak hand, listening to the sound of the droplets hitting the tub, trickling away just as the voices had.

 

 

He strains to recall the second one, his mind reaching what seems to be a solid wall. No, he mustn’t think of it that way. That implied there’s something to be found, when he’s sure he’s never heard the voice before. Surely it’s all just his imagination. He hasn’t be sleeping well lately… Just the fancies of a knackered mind. Then why does he feel so…? He rubs his hands down his face forcefully, the frustration growing into an uncharacteristic rage. That voice. The sense of déjà entendu is maddening. Why can’t he just- He gives a short bark of angry protest, hitting the wall with his fist.

 

 

He covers his face with a damp hand, muttering into it softly. This isn’t him. He’s not like this. Not angry. Not prone to outbursts. He just needs to calm down and get on with getting ready for work. _Piss!_ He throws back the shower curtain, stepping out and pulling the towel around him, the beige fabric cheap and not particularly absorbent. He continue to shake, though at least it’s partially from cold now as his fast trot to the bedroom pulls him through the cool air. He rubs the towel over himself almost frantically, draping it over his head and shoulders as he opens the top drawer of his dresser with a _schick_ of particle board against particle board, the only think in it being the clothes he’ll need for today.

 

 

He drags the pants up his legs, the waistband askew, the socks quickly following up his calves, trousers tugged up over his arse and fastened with a fumble. He manhandles his skull through the towel, hair wild and rather fluffed, his undershirt serving only to make it more mussed, his eyebrows now brush out of place downwards by the collar. Shoving his arms into his casual graphic t-shirt, he pulls it over his head, searching for his boots, which he finds carelessly stashed under his bed after fruitless minutes of searching through boxes. Once they’re in hand, he dashes to the kitchen, shoving his wallet into his pocket, eyes catching on a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet painted like a small planet Earth.

 

****

**_CLASS MOVED FROM_ **

**_9 TO 10_ **

 

 

He mentally stutters for a moment, slumping forwards onto the counter, the need for rush all but evaporated. _Thank god_. He ignores the trembling of his hands, taking his kettle from its spot on the stove top to fill it with water, the slow increase in its weight carefully gauged before he shuts off the tap, returning the kettle to the back burner and twisting the knob to high. His hands rest of the edge of the stove, eyes staring into his reflection of the microwave door, a frown on his face as though it’s something he can’t parse…

 

 

The kettle whistles, making him jump, his staring haven gone on longer than the moments he’d anticipated. Lips twitching into a slight scowl, he realizes he hasn’t prepared his mug or gotten out any tea; things that he would typically have done during the interlude of the water boiling. His fingers curl under the door of the cupboard to the left of the stove, taking out a loose-leaf rooibos tea before he crosses to the other cupboard for a plan white stoneware mug, pulling open a drawer for the infuser.

 

 

All the while the kettle is screaming, almost to the point of boiling over as he sets it on a cool ring, shutting off the glowing element. With careful fingers he measures out his tea into the infuser where it rests across the mouth of the mug, pouring the scalding water through slowly until the cup is filled. Leaving it to steep a while longer, Greyson fetches himself the soy milk from the fridge as well as a small recycled plastic tub of hummus. He sets the items aside on the counter, going about making himself toast, leaving the wheat bread to brown as he strains the last of the tea from the leaves and tosses them, rinsing the infuser and returning it to the drawer. The orange color of the rooibos is diluted by a slow pour of soy milk, his hands wavering only the slightest bit now that his routine is there to guide him.

 

 

 _Pull yourself together. You’ve got time. Set yourself up for a scare, didn’t you?_ He slowly shakes his head, marveling at his own forgetfulness in changing the alarm time. It’s only a 15 minute cycle to work. He’s got ages until he needs to be on campus. All the worry for nothing. He spreads the hummus across the perfect brown of his toast, artfully arranging the slices on a small plate next to his mug before putting the milk and tea tin away, sealing the bread with a twist. Carrying his breakfast into the sitting room, he approaches his laptop, staring around suspiciously as he sets it all down. Where did he leave his messenger bag…? He wanders back into the bedroom, face set in a gently befuddled frown, this morning seeming only to discourage him further.

 

 

The darkness of his bedroom is quite simply unacceptable. Who would want to sleep in such a dungeon? No wonder he ended up kipping on the sofa. The curtain fastenings rattle as he parts them as far as they’ll go, his eyes dazzled by the sudden influx of light. The street is now revealed, and though it’s not particularly classy, it’s at least pleasant enough. Decent. Normal. Unassuming. Like something out of a spy book; a place to wait for things to blow over. He likes that. He feels himself warm to the place a bit more.

 

 

His lips tug into a soft smile, the daylight shining in looking rather washed out from the clouds covering the sky, the shadows only gentle gradients. Perfect day for a stroll with his camera, if he were so inclined. Now that everything is properly illuminated he looks for his aged leather messenger bag, finding it where he should’ve known it’d be: on a hanger in the closet, along with his camera bag. He fondly takes them both with him into the kitchen to collect his worn boots from where he’d dropped them onto the floor. Flumping down onto the sofa with a light sigh, he clunks his boots back down, tucking his bags against his side before reaching to prop open his laptop. The startup noise blares as he loosens the laces of his boots, pulling over his heels and stringing them securely, leaving his trouser legs bunched above the tops as he leans in to attend to his computer.

 

 

The background of a close-up shot of a gardenia in bloom accompanies the login, his skilled fingers punching out his username and password, taking him to his desktop, web browser already open to his blog. Compulsively refreshing the page his kneads his lips, scrolling through his dashboard, taking in the images of delicately out of focus thin people and bold text across fogged backgrounds. An idle hand brings his tea to his lips, the burn not phasing him in the slightest as he reblogs indie photography from the art blogs that he follows, methodically tagging them. He quirks his brows as he clicks over to his list of followers, sighing over the 6 URLs that are there. They’re so talented. Really they are. Nah, tumblr fame isn’t for him. Especially not with how nervous he gets with even the slightest compliment. Like all the mornings before, he fiddles with his theme, trying to find just the right color accent, forever pondering his own URL. Pretentious? Probably.

 

 

whenskiesaregreyson

 

 

He munches into his slice of toast, sitting back and staring at the URL. He can’t change it. It’s too sentimental. The backdrop to majority of his favorite memories, that lullaby. Chewing the toast, he sets a booted foot up onto the coffee table next to the whirring machine, bobbing the toe of it softly. It suits him too well. He dusts the crumbs from his fingers onto his trousers with an air of finality, taking a last gulp of his tea. Meandering to the bathroom to fix his hair and brush his teeth, he rounds the corner more slowly, as though the room could hold an echo of the terrifying little episode he experienced. Nothing? Good… He takes in his reflection, frowning while battling to smooth down his hair where it sticks up in the back, running his fingers forward through it, head tipped down. Messy but not careless is what he aims for.

 

 

None of his products are on the counter. _‘Course not. I really need to unpack._ Clomping quietly to rummage through boxes again, he rolls his eyes at the ceiling before bending to dig his pomade from under other sundry toiletries. He returns to his spot in front of the mirror, unscrewing the cap and dabbing his fingers into the scented product, dragging it carefully through his hair with a focused grimace on his face. He tugs at the tips of a few wayward locks to keep them slightly unruly, the rest falling in a mostly natural way. Tilting his head to admire his work he rinses his fingers, closing the pomade. Victory once more against his batshit crazy hair.  Still smug with his achievement he squeezes a neat cylinder of toothpaste onto his toothbrush, scrubbing as he leans on one hand, perhaps making more bubbles than is entirely necessary. His eyes widen and narrow flirtatiously at himself as he gives a ‘Well aren’t you a saucy bastard’ type of look.

 

 

What else does he need to do? _Deodorant, damn_. He bites down on the toothbrush, giving a light jog back into the bedroom, searching through the box, holding the deodorant clasped in one hand as he picks up the box with a chiding murmur past the toothpaste suds, finally sick of running back and forth for every little bloody thing he needs. He kicks his dirty clothes out of the way, clunking the box down into the cleared space, staring down as though to make sure it’s properly repentant for causing such fuss, a certain cockiness in the way he spits out the lather into the sink, rinsing his mouth and wiping at the edges of his lips. The clink of the rinsed brush getting tossed casually into its holder is cheerful.

 

 

The scent of deodorant wafts up to him as he uncaps it, lifting up both layers of shirts to apply it in a few long strokes. He likes this one, the fragrance strong enough to be smelled only faintly in passing. Nothing worse than being overpowered by cologne or perfume. His eyes dart sideways to the shower, the stick of deodorant in one hand, the cap in the other, feeling unsettled again. Jaw flexing nervously, Grey sets everything down, his hands running down his face as he tries to walk away slowly, giving a sound of exhaustion. God, why can’t he just forget it? He needs his coat. He scavenges for his black pea coat with the red buttons, needing to insulate himself against whatever the hell it is he’s feeling.

 

 

He can honestly say that is the first time he’s collapsed in a shower. The first time he’s felt this unstable. Is he getting ill? Maybe he should rest- _Can’t. Work. What kind of impression is calling in sick on my first day? I need this_. To be on campus before the class actually starts. Chewing his lip, he buttons the coat, moving about to collect his dishes slowly, setting them into the sink. He sits down in front of his laptop again for a moment, almost surprised to find that he’d spent all his time looking at his dash without reblogging anything. It’s too empty now, his blog. He’d purged it about a month back, deciding to start over with a less cluttered collection of photos. Not that anyone noticed. He starts up the webcam, carrying the laptop into the kitchen to take a picture of the note on his fridge. _Bloody new set up, making it so I can’t just take a picture and post it_ , he gripes internally, returning to the sitting room to upload the image to a new post.

 

 

He types out a quick caption, tagging it appropriately. It looks wrong. Out of place with the high-quality photos that he’d reblogged yesterday, the image dark and grainy. He’s got time for one more post to distract from his personal one. He scrolls only for a moment, settling on a gif image of a man lying in bed opening his eyes in a comically confused manner. He’s sure he recognizes it from an old film…Gene Kelly…An American in Paris? That has to be it. He checks the blog that made the gif, going into their link for gifs from musicals. He’s right. Knew it. Reblogging it, he looks his arm through the straps of his two bags. Groaning, he feels the need to tell somebody about the nerves jangling in his body. _Fine. One more personal post_.  Deciding on a discreet readmore he gives a small blurb before posting and shutting his laptop, hoping his queue will bury it before anyone reads it.

 

 

He slips his laptop into his messenger bag, patting the side pocket to check that the charger is where he left it, standing finally and collecting his singular key off the countertop. The key ring is so awkwardly bare of other things that it doesn’t even jingle when he stuffs it into his pocket. A cab today…just to get used to the route. Well, that’s necessary anyways, since his bike lock is one of many things lost in one of the other boxes in his flat. Has he forgotten anything…? He frowns, taking a few steps backwards before turning to leave, his bags swinging against his side, their weight soothing and familiar.

 

 

The shill, as he opens the door, doesn’t blast him. Doesn’t swallow him. It softly creeps up his body from his boots to his head, caressing, only stealing his warmth when he moves through it, wading into the gentle cold to close and lock his door behind him. He stares out from his porch for a long moment, grasping that he’s right on the threshold of something he’s always wanted. He pushes his hands into his pockets, making his way toward the main road. _For a Monday morning, it’s not half bad_ , he thinks, chortling internally. He’s not sure whether or not he’s being sarcastic.

 

 

He feels good, bundled up and safe, the setting banishing the discomfort as the occasional beam of sun falls through the thick cloud layer, giving the scene something of a significant air about it. Sign of a good day to come? He hopes so, even going so far as to cross his fingers in his pockets as he reaches the curb, giving a nervous bounce on his heels. Lifting a hand, he waits for a cab to pick him up, ignoring the stray thought that maybe none of them will stop… _Hush, they can’t all be full, right?_ Before he can add a tentative afterthought of ‘right?’ again in a more hushed tone a cab slides smoothly to pull alongside the pavement.

 

 

His doubts nullified, Greyson directs the cab driver, settling back in his seat, bags on his lap and feeling small, the sight of innumerable cars and people sending a tickle of anxiety through him. Chest tightening, he can feel every breath stretch his lungs, an irrational urge to flee going through him. He tips his head back against the seat taking a slow breath, letting it puff out his cheeks as he exhales, keeping his eyes closed until the very last bit of air is gone. His next breath is noticeably less tight, his fingers playing with the stra of his messenger bag in an uncoordinated fashion, the leather feeling almost like flesh once it picks up his own heat. It comforts him, even if the idea itself is rather perturbing when thought of out of context.

 

 

Thankfully, the ride is short. He stuffs his hand into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out the right bills and giving them over, nearly dropping them. The can pulls away, leaving him on the pavement outside the university campus, feeling like an idiot. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve taken out the money earlier._ He clamps his lips shut, hand finding its way back to the strap of the messenger bag as he steps onwards, trying to instill a bit of confidence in his walk. Students are everywhere. Sitting on the grass, the steps up to buildings, standing in groups. He feels like he’s back in his own school days, and the feeling isn’t a good one. _This was a mistake…all of it._ He wants to crawl into his bed and stay there for the foreseeable future if he may, please and thanks. He feels a bit sick, hoping against hope that he doesn’t lose his breakfast.

 

 

He walks off, at speed, towards the Arts and Literature buildings, clinging to the fact that he knows where he’s going to help keep himself calm. He keeps as far back from the people around him as possible, unintentionally making himself stand out, not that anyone is particularly concerned about the strange bloke with the scared look on his face. His palms sweat, even though the cold air should prevent such, his heart fluttering in his chest. He’s not built for life outside his flat. Not qualified to deal with people.

 

 

Sucking in a deep breath, he holds it as long as he can, feeling his heartbeat grow louder in his ears, repeating the exercise as he goes even though he starts to see sparkles _. Soon. Close. Almost there_. He can read the smaller signs on the side of the buildings, like moorings for his eyes, keeping him from looking elsewhere. Once he enters the shade of the building he brushes his fingers across the brick as he finds the right doorway, letting himself in. The silence inside is odd, muffled and heavy. He finds refuge in an alcove, sitting on the bench there. He’s early. Early is good. Early is great. He can get into the class without worrying about people already being there and looking at him when he opens the door. His legs feel a bit weak when he gets up to find the right room, but he’s more stable. His eyes are a bit wide as he looks down the corridor, following it to the room, finding himself nearly bumping into the very professor he’s to be assisting.

 

“Mr. Philips! Wasn’t expecting you for another 10 minutes or so. Glad you’re here, though. Shows good character.” Prof. Lydia Magellan gives a quick bright smile, her hand settling onto Greyson’s elbow, his nervousness obvious. The woman’s deep plum-red hair confuses him for a moment, the face matching the voice luckily. _Did she dye her hair it’s not the color it was the week before oh god what if I lose sight of her and mistake her for a student-_ “You’ve got about a half hour to set up if you’d like. Do you need anything? Coffee? A valium maybe?” She gives a quiet laugh, her expression gentle.

 

 

“I-erm- no thanks.” He remembers to smile in return, trying to turn his anxiety into enthusiasm. “So, I’ll just go in and-…?”

 

 

“Yeah, yeah! Go ahead. Take a good look around. And relax while you’re at it. They aren’t going to draw and quarter you,” Magellan chides, patting his arm and moving off down the corridor a bit, heading towards the lounge area. He notices the cup in her hand, assuring himself that she’ll be back soon enough, once she’s filled it up with whatever she’s drinking. She’ll give him direction. He won’t be as useless as a fish out of water, flailing around pathetically.

 

 

The door into the studio is covered in the initials of graduate students from Magellan’s class, the strokes made in Deco marker or something similar, with a sturdy lacquer over them to keep them there for as long as the door remains part of the classroom. His fingertips trace over the varying styles of writing, artful loops and angles in all of the signatures. _A work of art in and of itself, he thinks to himself_ , finally moving to enter, closing the door quietly behind himself, even though the pressurized hinge would keep it from slamming anyways. The layout is different from last time… He tries not to stress, finding Magellan’s desk and the smaller table set to the side for him, holding his bags in front of him to avoid catching them on the edges of a few easels set about. Sitting down with a puff of air, he unpacks his camera and laptop, fidgeting with their placement until Magellan returns.

 

 

“Still not relaxed, I see,” she says sweetly, sitting in her own seat, setting her full cup to the side as she moves a few water color brushes and something she’s been working on to the side. “It’s really not as difficult as it seems. They may be our students, but majority of them are responsible, kind adults. They won’t be shrieking and hanging from the rafters, tossing rubbers at you. All you need to do is go around and offer help if they need it. They know what they’re doing, so you’ll likely spend most of your time just milling around.” She flashes a look at him, giving another warm smile.

 

 

Nothing occurs to him in reply except to nod to her, trying not to notice the tattoos on her neck and wrists, fascinated in spite of himself by the clean lines and abstract design. She, of course, sees this, pulling up her sleeves to reveal sleeves of a more creative nature. “Wow… Those are great,” he mumbles, tilting his head now that he’s been invited to look.

 

 

“Not inked yourself, I take it,” she says, watching him with amusement.

 

 

“Oh god no.” He shakes his head, a small laugh getting lodged somewhere in his throat. “Wouldn’t dare. My mum scared any urge out of me. Took me to a retirement village to show me what my tattoos would look like when I got old. And…I’m a bit of a pain lightweight.” He grimaces, feeling a bit more at ease. Fooling himself perhaps, into thinking that he can get through today without a panic attack.

 

 

“Maybe it’s time to loosen up a bit, Greyson. Live a little.” Magellan tugs her sleeves back down, taking a sip from her cup. “Get a little off the beaten path.”

 

 

“Yeah…maybe.” The smile on his face is slight, but extends into a rather balloon-like sensation of tentative relaxation and excitement in his chest. He’s as ready as he can be.

 

**A/N: Greyson's blog is real, though it's still in the works. If you interact with him, try to keep it normal rather than hinting at anything that would induce a bleed-through.**


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